


inevitably, eventually

by virgohotspot



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Best Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Politics, President!Clarke Griffin, Special Agent!Bellamy Blake, brief displays of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 06:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virgohotspot/pseuds/virgohotspot
Summary: Clarke Griffin has worked tirelessly her whole life to gain this title: Madam President Clarke Griffin of the United States. She knows how difficult it's going to be for her, especially being the first woman and youngest President ever appointed, but she's never backed down from a challenge before. Then again, there's never quite been a challenge like Special Agent Blake, who refuses to leave her side in the name of security.Or, Special Agent Blake is hired to be part of the personal security detail of the newly appointed Madam President Clarke Griffin. Politics and chaos ensues.Written for The 100 Writers For BLM Initiative
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 20
Kudos: 179
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	inevitably, eventually

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burninghoneyatdusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninghoneyatdusk/gifts).



> This is a gift from Mads to you, Sam! Here's a special message from her:
> 
> "You are one of my favorite humans, and I am grateful to call you a true friend. Ily! #BAHSA!"
> 
> I hope you enjoy:)

_Term 1, Year 1:_

“You’ve got a target on your back, Madam President.”

Madam President Clarke Griffin glowers at her row of security detail, arms crossed firmly across her chest. Her gaze lands on Bellamy Blake, staring back at her with the same heat of intensity. The head of her personnel is new, Wells having retired just days before the inauguration to focus on his family. This new person, although vigorously vetted through criminal record checks and an extensive background search, is not someone that Clarke yearns to get to know. He’s smug, and overly confident, thinks he knows everything about her even though he just met her seventy two hours ago.

She’s been the President of the United States for about three hours, and the day has already filled with realities that have been ingrained in Clarke’s mind. How momentous it is for someone like her to become President, how difficult this road is going to be for her, how just because she’s here, now – doesn’t mean that the country thinks she belongs here. All of her hard work to get to where she is won’t be credited, people will say it was pure luck. Breaking history, for Madam President Clarke Griffin, will be considered _luck_.

“Thanks for the update, Special Agent Blake,” Clarke flashes a plastic smile, before addressing the rest of her security detail. “But I know what I’m up against. Hence why the rest of you are here.”

“My team understands that, Madam President,” Mr. Blake interjects once more.

_My team_ , Clarke nearly scoffs. Instead, a slow, bemused smirk appears on her face. This is _her_ team, the _President’s_ team. Mr. Blake only happens to be the one in charge of _her team_.

Mr. Blake straightens, sensing Clarke’s dismay. “But I still strongly suggest that having a personnel on you at all times. It’s not unlike presidents in the past–”

“I’ll have personnel on me when I leave the White House,” Clarke interrupts with a harsh glare. Mr. Blake screws his lips shut, unimpressed, but wisely choosing not to say a word. That plastic smile returns to Clarke’s face. “Now, you’re all dismissed. I’d like to start my first day of Presidency with a couple of minutes to myself.”

Turning back to her desk, Clarke hears the shuffle of footsteps behind her. She places her fingertips on the wooden oak, leaning in close to peer out the window at the fresh lawn outside. The grass is greener than anything she’s ever seen, pure and freshly watered, with a round of colorful bushes decorating the lawn. The whole day has been spent with the flash of cameras ringing in her, and now that she can embrace the quiet and bright day outside, Clarke – Madam President Griffin – can reflect truly on how far she’s come.

Becoming the President of the United States is an accomplishment all on its own, but being the first woman and the youngest in the role is another entirely. Her whole life has been crafted around this moment right here, from a slew of private schools to graduating early and heading to Ivy Leagues and Masters programs to her Senate seat. Nobody thought she would make it to the Oval Office, especially not so soon. But Clarke knew. She always knew that somehow, someway, she would end up here, where she belongs.

It’s been a tireless process, one Clarke knows has been and will continue to be absent of breaks. For now, however, as she hears the door shut behind her, Clarke lets out a long, drawn out breath. This time to herself will only last a few moments, if she’s so lucky to even have that. Clarke soaks in the outdoor greenery for just a moment longer, inhaling the scents of the office she intends to make her own over the next four years – most likely eight, because she’s used to having things go her way.

Tearing her gaze away from the window, Clarke scans the Oval Office, it’s white paneling and tall ceilings nothing out of the ordinary, settling comfortably in Clarke’s chest. She can only soak it in for a moment, however as she turns back around, finding herself face Bellamy Blake.

Mr. Blake, head of her security detail, stands with his hands clasped together before Clarke. He never interrupts, having let her have her moment to her lonesome as the rest of her detail trickled out of the office. Clarke’s only slightly startled by his presence, straightening her posture and glowering at him. He doesn’t say anything, not a word slipping past his lips, despite him having a mouthful just minutes ago. Staring at her, he tips his head to the side, his lips formed in a tight line, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Can I help you?” Clarke furrows her eyebrows, trying not to sound as irritated as she is. The last thing she needs is rumors spreading around the office about how _The First Female President Is Such a Bitch_ this early on.

Clearing his throat, a smug expression returns to Mr. Blake’s features. As if Clarke flipped a switch, and he’s morphed back into his true self. He straightens. “I was giving you your moments alone.”

“I dismissed you,” Clarke narrows her eyes.

“You dismissed my team. You can never truly dismiss me.”

“I think you’re forgetting who has the authority here.”

Mr. Blake chuckles fondly, pricking the nerves on Clarke’s skin. He takes a step forward, a credible amount of distance between the two. Which is a shame, since Clarke can’t simply reach out and wipe that smug smile off of his face.

“Madam President,” Mr. Blake begins. “You are the first female President, and the youngest one to term. You have no partner, no children. And you’re democrat, nonetheless.”

“You’re telling me what I already know,” Clarke huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you’re going to linger, at least get to the point.”

“It’s a miracle you got elected.”

Clarke lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking her head at the absurdity of the man before her. She rounds her desk, fingers grazing the oak of the wood once more, slick against her fingers. Mr. Blake steps towards the desk, not defiantly, but confidentially. Clarke’s seen enough arrogance from men for a lifetime, and most of them are insistent that their cocky behavior is justified in the poorness of their knowledge. Mr. Blake appears just as arrogant, but woefully unapologetic about it.

Perching her fingertips on the wood, Clarke leans over with a deviant narrow of her eyes. Mr. Blake stands before her, the two separated by the wood of the desk, not that any of them attempt to cross that line. Their eyes lock, icy blue meeting warm brown. Clarke’s never been too fond of coming across as warm and inviting, but that’s the platform that wins elections for women. The warmth in Mr. Blake’s eyes almost seem like they’re not meant to be there, not any fault of his own. There’s a naturality of it, one Clarke noticed the moment she formally met him.

He must mean well, she thinks. In his own sense of the word, at least. Clarke’s read his file, as did her previous head of security detail. A family man, in one way or another, Mr. Blake has a protective side to him that often brings out his possessiveness. It’s a textbook case, and makes for an excellent addition to the security detail. Also, seems to make him certain that he knows what’s best for everyone at all times, under the basis of trying to keep them safe.

“You have a sister, Octavia Marie Blake,” Clarke recalls. “She’s a decade or so younger than you, she was about ten when your mother passed. You were twenty. Took on that responsibility in the middle of your degree in Criminology at Arkadia University.”

Mr. Blake straightens, his face morphing from that smug expression to something stoic and unphased. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel, Clarke deduces, but chooses to shut down when anything becomes personal for him. He doesn’t like when the tables are turned, finds it uncomfortable, finds it _wrong_ for the attention to be on himself.

“You did a great job with her. She just graduated from her Master’s program, has a PhD in Psychology,” Clarke tilts her head to the side. “You’ve also done well for yourself. You didn’t really put that Criminology degree to use for long, dropped out of the police force to work for personal security services when you were twenty eight. You’ve worked your way up. All the way to the White House.”

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like you hadn’t worked hard, Madam President. You have. Anyone with a functioning brain can see that,” Mr. Blake clarifies. “But I’m afraid not every American citizen has one of those. You _just_ won the election, by a couple thousand votes in some key swing states.”

“I like to think the world is taking a turn for the better,” Clarke straightens, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not naïve enough to think that it actually has, Mr. Blake.”

“Then you understand why it’s crucial that we keep personnel on you at all times,” Mr. Blake insists. “You deserved your win, but many citizens of this country have yet to realize that. They won’t just disagree with your policies, or how liberal you are. They’ll disagree with–”

“My age, my gender, my sexuality, the fact that I’m not married, why don’t I have any children?” Clarke finishes for him with an amused smile. “You may be new to this world, Mr. Blake, but I’m not. I’m no stranger to a target on my back.”

Mr. Blake’s jaw clenches. The wheels are turning in that mind of his, one with such an IQ that her former head of security detail had been floored. He clears his throat. “I understand, Madam President. But I want to emphasize the importance of your personnel. We’re here to protect you.”

“And you’ll be here when I need you to do just that,” Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “Are we done here, Mr. Blake?”

They most certainly are not, and Clarke knows it’s written across both of their faces. Mr. Blake doesn’t say anything, but he wishes he could. Maybe it’s a loss for control, or an anxiety that he won’t be able to protect the most important person in the country at the moment. He’ll fear it’s his fault. Clarke doesn’t mean to over analyze, but it’s how she got to where she is. She needs to understand the people around her.

“We are,” Mr. Blake nods. “I apologize, Madam President Griffin. Enjoy your first day.”

Mr. Blake turns, striding out of the room without another word. Clarke watches him go, and waits for the door to come to a soft close. It won’t be the last she sees of Bellamy Blake today. But for now, she does not mind.

Clarke glances around the Oval Office with an absurd grin breaking out onto her face. She collapses onto her chair with a squeal of glee. She’s finally fucking here. After everything, she’s here, sitting in the Oval Office as the President of the United States. Clarke kicks her legs, swinging around in her chair and bursting into a fit of glee.

She doesn’t hear the door open. Clarke only sees Mr. Blake standing before her, with a bemused smirk on his face, when her chair comes to a halt. Scrambling to her feet, Clarke clears her throat, smoothening out her hair and attire before addressing Mr. Blake.

“Sorry to interrupt, Madam President,” Mr. Blake’s half-assed apology doesn’t go unnoticed. “I just wanted to let you know I’d be outside if you need me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blake.” Clarke’s lips tighten into a straight line. He waits, for a command or just for his amusement, Clarke wishes not to deduce. “You are dismissed.”

This time, Mr. Blake takes her dismissal in stride. He saunters out of the door, glancing over his shoulder to tip his head to her in acknowledgement. She returns the gesture curtly, her lips pressed together so tightly they may just burst. As the door shuts behind him, Clarke’s stare lingers on the door, suspecting Mr. Blake may try and surprise her once again.

* * *

The first few months having Mr. Blake on her security detail go exactly as Clarke expects them to. He trails behind her nearly everywhere, even to the bathroom, and if he can’t do it, he’ll order someone else to. To his credit, he keeps an appropriate distance, daring to stand outside of the bathroom door instead of join her in the stall, but it’s just as irritating to Clarke as if he had stepped in there with her.

There’s enough on her plate that’s stress inducing, enough to send Clarke into a spiral of madness. From conferences to policies to hits from the media to terrorist threats, the madness continues and festers into something that people would deem uncontrollable. Clarke’s fortunate enough that she knows exactly what she’s getting into – she can handle it. For some odd reason, however, she can’t handle Bellamy Blake.

“Cut him some slack, Madam President,” Wells’ voice teases over the phone. She hears the gurgle of his infant daughter bouncing on his lap. “We were basically joint at the hip when I was your security detail.”

“That’s different,” Clarke snarls, pacing around her bedroom. She glances at the door, sensing Mr. Blake on the other side. “You’re my best friend. We were joint at the hip since we met.”

“We just got lucky. This is how the presidency works, Clarke. You’re the most important person in the country, he’s just trying to protect you.”

“I’d like to be able to breathe. You know, have a couple of moments to myself?”

“Please, you’re the President. You’re basically public property now.”

Clarke releases a heavy sigh, leaning her back against the door with a gentle thump. She closes her eyes, relishing in the reality that’s been ingrained in her head for so long. This is what she signed up for. She knows she doesn’t need the glorified babysitter, but it’s in his job description to be just that.

A loud thump of someone on the other end jolts Clarke upwards, a short gasp leaving her lips. She can hear the murmur of a chuckle through the wood door, undoubtedly belonging to that glorified babysitter of hers. She scowls, yearning to yank open the door and shout, but that wouldn’t be a good look. Nor does Clarke want to give him that satisfaction.

“Well, it would help if he wasn’t such an ass,” Clarke hisses.

She keeps her steady glare on the door, before striding over to the other side of the room, just to put some much needed distance between the two.

“You’re in politics, Clarke. Everybody is an ass,” Wells points out. He sighs, seemingly shifting the infant on his lap. “Now, say hi to your goddaughter before she forgets what your voice sounds like.”

A small smile breaks out onto Clarke’s face. The pitch of her voice raises a couple undistinguishable octaves. “Hello, Ingrid. Are your daddies driving you crazy?”

Ingrid, at her bright age of seven months, babbles in response. Clarke giggles, soaking in the sounds of the infant. Sometimes, she can’t believe that Wells is a father. He’s an amazing one, no doubt, she always knew he would be. She just hadn’t expected their lives to move so fast, and then suddenly diverge in such opposite directions.

“Hey, this daddy isn’t,” Wells clarifies with an offended scoff. “Roan is the one dressing her up in couture pieces.”

Both Wells and Roan were a part of Clarke’s security detail while she was a Senator – it’s where her two companions met. Years later, they’re married and adopted a beautiful little girl, and both chose to retire comfortably on the suburban side of Washington. Close enough to be in reach of Clarke, far enough to rid the politics from their daily lives. Clarke can’t blame them, politics are a nauseating place for anyone, especially a new, budding family.

Clarke would never think to start a family while she’s President. Although it may be a little late for her when she’s completed her terms, it’s a limelight she doesn’t want to force onto anyone. The scrutiny a President faces, especially one that looks and acts like her, is only to be reflected on those around her. She’s kind of grateful that Wells separated himself and his family from it before she was inaugurated. It would have sparked a whole separate media frenzy.

Sighing blissfully, a fond smile reaches Clarke’s lips thinking of Ingrid in designer pieces. An ache in her heart prevails, a sudden feeling of loss she’s all too familiar with. This life doesn’t come with a lot of buddies, and the few that she has have their own lives to occupy them. For the next four years, hopefully eight, Clarke’s life does not exist beyond this White House. It’s a sacrifice she made, and one that she’d make over and over again.

A knock at the door interrupts Clarke’s train of thought. She presses the phone to her shoulder. “Come in.”

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Blake enters, peaking his head inside respectively. “Madam President, Vice President Wallace wanted me to remind you of your dinner together this evening.”

A grimace inescapably falls across Clarke’s face. Mr. Blake catches it, a smirk crawling across his own lips before Clarke can cover up her expression. She doesn’t dislike her Vice President, she’s the one who agreed to have him on her team, knowing it would look good to have a slightly more conservative Vice President to balance her. He’s excellent at his job, and dedicated to this country. He’s just a bit forceful with his tactics. Not to mention, he wasn’t Clarke’s first choice for the role. 

“Want me to cancel for you?” Mr. Blake suggests. “I could say you’re under the weather.”

“A President is never under the weather,” Clarke straightens. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Mr. Blake seems like he wants to say something more, but chooses against it. He nods in agreement, before ducking out of the room and closing the door behind him. Clarke sighs deeply, pressing her phone back to her ear.

“I like his voice,” Wells comments before she can say anything. “It’s deep, rugged, sexy.”

“Please do not talk about my security detail like they’re Roan,” Clarke groans inwardly.

“I’m not saying it for me. I’m saying it for you.”

“I’m not hooking up with my security detail, thank you very much.”

“It may help you loosen up. You can’t spend the next four years not getting laid.”

“I intend to make it eight,” Clarke hears the fault in her sentence just as the words slip from her mouth. She heaves a sigh, just as Wells’ chuckles. “You know what I mean. I’d gladly sacrifice sex if it meant keeping this presidency in order.”

“That is so, incredibly sad.”

“Go back to your baby, Wells.”

Clarke hangs up the phone on her friend mid-chuckle, smiling sadly at the screen. She misses her friend, wishing he was here in replacement of her arrogant head of security detail. But they’ve all got their own priorities now, she assumes.

* * *

Sitting on one end of the long table, Clarke tries her best to make nice with Cage Wallace. He’s her Vice President, and while they usually get along, it’s in the grand scheme of everything – discussing policies, creating campaign plans, everything under the sun do with politics – when others are around. When they’re alone, Cage thinks they’re closer than they actually are, as if their buddies above being colleagues. Clarke could consider him a friend, but definitely one that she keeps at a respectable distance.

“Oh, Miss. Griffin,” Cage raises his glass, a sickly sweet smile growing across his lips. “Look how far we’ve come.”

“That’s President Griffin to you,” Clarke tries to pass it off a joke with a cheery laugh, one that masks her irritation of his acknowledgement to her. She raises her glass. “To our few months in the White House.”

Cage hums in agreeance, bringing the glass of wine to his lips. Clarke takes a careful, short sip of her own. The Vice President is on his third glass, already becoming overly bold with his statements and word choice. This isn’t supposed to be a formal dinner, but Clarke would prefer if they maintained some class.

Clarke watches as Cage’s eyes drift behind her. She already knows who he’s looking at, doesn’t have to dissect the disdain written across his face. He glances back at her, leaning in closer, although that doesn’t make too much of a difference with the long table separating them.

“Maybe next time, we could rid of the bodyguard?” Cage suggests.

Glancing over her shoulder, Clarke locks eyes with Mr. Blake, standing near the far end of the room. He’d leave if she asked him to, although that would probably just be him stepping outside and staying within earshot. That’s usually the stance that he takes. Yet, during this dinner, he chose to stay in the room, although it would just be her, Cage and the catering staff.

Mr. Blake eyes her skeptically, as if asking what she wants him to do. That’s something she’s noticed about him, he never speaks out of turn. Always waits for him to address him, or allow him permission to open his mouth. Clarke presumes it’s a respect thing, something that’s been ingrained in him long before he took this role in security detail. She tries to ignore the intrigue that sparks in her chest whenever her gaze lingers on him for a little too long.

Clarke knows all she needs to know about Bellamy Blake. It’s all in his file. He’s here to protect her, to serve her, and the life he has outside of the White House does not concern her. It’s pretty black and white, everything she needs to know about him crammed into one file that’s been vetted by Lord knows how many officials.

Although, sometimes, when Clarke’s stare lingers just a little longer than it should, she wonders how the curls piled on top of his head manage to stay out of his eyes or how he received that scar above his upper lip. And then, she catches herself, reminds herself that she doesn’t need to know anything about Bellamy Blake that’s not in his file.

Clarke swivels her head back around to Cage, plastering on a plastic smile. “Maybe next time.”

Mr. Blake walks her back to her room that night, as he always does. They say nothing, as they usually do. Clarke hasn’t said anything, Mr. Blake will stay silent until she does. Sometimes, she purposefully does not say anything so she doesn’t have to hear his snarky remarks. But tonight, Clarke aches to hear the voice of someone not over the phone.

“Thank you,” Clarke says when they reach her room. “For sticking around with Cage. He’s a bit–”

“Creepy?” Bellamy suggests with an unhelpful smirk.

Clarke straightens her posture. “I was going to say that he’s a bit of a character.”

“You know, you don’t always have to talk like a President around me,” Mr. Blake shrugs. “You could just admit that Cage is a bit of a creep.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s creepy at all,” Clarke lies through her teeth. “And I’m always a President around you, Mr. Blake.”

“I was surprised when you chose him as your VP. I was expecting you to choose Senator Reyes,” Mr. Blake crosses his arms over his chest. His stare lingers on her, never leaving her eyes, which is somehow more overbearing than anything else. “And I know. But I like to see President Griffin outside of her President stature every once in a while.”

“Had any luck yet?” Clarke teases, trying her best to ignore the comment about Senator Reyes.

Mr. Blake must sense that she doesn’t want to talk about it, because his focus shifts elsewhere. There’s a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, his smirk morphing into a bemused smile. “Sometimes I see you trying not to laugh at my jokes.”

“You must be making that up in your head, because I think none of your jokes are funny.”

“You’re a good liar, I’ll give you that.” Mr. Blake chuckles softly. “But not when you’re around me. I think you may be a bit more comfortable than you’re letting on.”

Clarke should not be as defensive about that statement as she is. She’s worked hard to create this façade of professionalism, of perfection, because anything less would magnify the target on her back. It usually fools a slew of people, this political front that she’s put up for herself. Mr. Blake, however, doesn’t seem to phased by it. He never really was.

Bellamy Blake is respectful and cautious, but he appeals to the real side of her. When they speak, when they really speak to one another, it’s like he’s talking to a person rather than the President. He has an understanding not only of politics, but of how her brain works. Clarke would chalk it up to that high IQ of his, but there’s something more to it. Something that she’s missing, something that she can’t put her finger on.

“I’m comfortable that you won’t slit my throat in my sleep,” Clarke spits out.

A smirk appears on Mr. Blake’s face. “I’d probably have to kill anyone who ever thought of doing that to you. So don’t worry, it’s not on my mind.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“I can tell.”

Clarke notices it a few seconds later, reflecting back on the last few moments. There’s few people she would speak to that way, all of which she would consider a close friend of hers. She doesn’t consider Mr. Blake a friend, nothing more than a colleague, a glorified babysitter. And yet, her guard dismantles before him, just with a clever quip from his lips.

“I’m here to protect you, Madam President,” Mr. Blake reminds her. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun while we’re at it.”

“There’s nothing fun about this job, Mr. Blake.” Clarke crosses her arms over her chest, staring up at him defiantly. “People’s lives depend on this job.”

“As does yours,” Bellamy shrugs. “Don’t you ever get tired of saving face?”

“I’m not saving face, I’m serving my country.”

“And you’re doing a great job. Give yourself a break.”

“Presidents don’t get breaks.”

Mr. Blake chuckles, seemingly giving up on this debate with her. Clarke’s façade has already built back up, albeit a bit on the defensive side. She can’t stand Bellamy Blake and his walking contradictions – knowing that she has a target on her back, urging her to take a break – it’s a whirlwind that she doesn’t need to hear. It’s certainly not one that she appreciates, furrowing her eyebrow as Mr. Blake steps away from her.

“Have a good night, Madam President,” Mr. Blake tips his head to her, standing a few feet from the door.

He’s undoubtedly going to be perched there all night. Clarke grimaces, turning her back to him and wrapping her fingers around the doorknob. She twists the handle, opening the door and taking a step inside. Unable to help herself, Clarke glances over her shoulder, instantly locking eyes with Mr. Blake, smirking back at her.

The façade returns. “Goodnight, Mr. Blake.” Clarke steps inside and closes the door behind her.

* * *

In between Presidential duties, Mr. Blake finds her painting one day. She’s on the balcony, aware that he’s inside the doors with another one of her service detail. However, she tends to second guess Mr. Blake and his knack for giving her space. Most of the time, he is able to tell when she needs to be alone. Other times, he simply does not care.

The slight of a brush stroke collides with the sound of the balcony door opening. Clarke doesn’t have to look up. She knows it’s him. It doesn’t, however, stop the sigh that emits from her mouth or the quiver in the brush stroke. She hesitates, peaking at the jagged line on the canvas and squinting in dismay, already calculating how to fix it.

“I didn’t peg you for the painting type,” she can hear the smirk on his face.

“Maybe because you only work for me,” Clarke supplies. “You don’t know me.”

“It’s my job to know you.”

“I thought it was your job to babysit?”

A warm chuckle escapes Mr. Blake’s lips. Clarke corrects the jagged line of grass, smoothening it over with a straight line, raising the seam of the lawn on the canvas. Her eyes flick up to find him rounding over the chair she’s perched on, standing before the bars of the balcony. Despite his cheeky demeanor, he stands tall, his hands clasped together in front of him, formally appearing like the rest of her security detail, as if nothing is out of place.

Nothing is ever really out of place with Mr. Blake. He keeps the security detail in line, chides them for any informalities and scolds them for screw-ups. Clarke’s noticed how seriously he takes his job. Which she admires, to an extent, until suddenly, the rules bend for him. Nobody would speak as comfortably with the President as he does, and while Clarke’s debated about taking offense to it, she finds it irritating more than anything else.

“You don’t need a babysitter,” Mr. Blake shrugs. “You need protection.”

Clarke scoffs, eyes drifting back down to her painting. “You’d stand guard in the bathroom if you could.”

“If I could.”

That brings a small smile to Clarke’s face, one that out of her peripheral, she can see Mr. Blake take pride in.

Mr. Blake doesn’t waver, but his eyes flick to the back of the canvas. “Can I ask what you’re painting?”

Clarke glares at her unfinished painting, unsatisfied with its earliest stages. She supposes she’s in politics and not art for a reason. She switches around the painting, showcasing the front lawn of the White House. Mr. Blake snickers and Clarke instantly turns the painting back to her.

“I don’t expect you to be able to do better,” Clarke sneers defensively.

“I definitely couldn’t,” Mr. Blake smirks. “I just like how everything you do centers around the White House.”

She could try to deny it, but there would be no point. “You’re the same way. Your world revolves around me.”

“It’s in the job description.”

“It’s also in mine.”

A genuine smile is brought to Mr. Blake’s face, as Clarke’s eyebrows furrow. It’s not that he tries to challenge her place in the Oval Office or undermine her Presidency, it’s that he plucks out these minor obsessions with her career. Clarke’s supposed to be obsessed with this job, this is supposed to be her whole life. She spent majority of it getting to this point, and now that she’s here, she has a duty to uphold.

As does he. Mr. Blake takes his job insanely seriously, he lives and breathes it. Clarke sees him almost every single day, with little to no days off. And that’s not because she doesn’t give him any, because she’s practically begged him to take time off. He just never does. He’s always here, worrying about what she’s doing.

They’re very similar in work ethic, whereas they differ in every other thing.

“You ever think of anything other than criticizing my devotion to this job?” Clarke leans back in her chair, a challenging look in her eye.

Mr. Blake’s eyebrows raise. “No. This is my favorite part of _my_ job.” Clarke rolls her eyes, earning a laugh from Mr. Blake. “I’m kidding. I don’t know, I just like to tease you about it sometimes.”

“Hope I’m not coming across as sensitive,” Clarke challenges.

“Not at all. You’re just high strung.”

“Who talks to the President of the United States as casually as you do?”

“If you were anybody else, I’d do the same.”

“I doubt that.”

Mr. Blake’s gaze waves over her to the painting in her lap, before meeting her eyes once more. There’s a tentative smile on his face, reflective and thoughtful. “You’re right. Maybe it is just you.”

Clarke pauses, ignoring the quickening of her heartbeat as stares back at him. “Sometimes, I think you’re lonely.”

“I think the same about you,” Mr. Blake admits.

“I’m not.”

Mr. Blake throws his head back in a chuckle. His eyes crinkle, and the scar above his lip deepens. “You can call me lonely, but I can’t make the same observation about you?”

“Not if it’s wrong.”

His gaze lingers on her, for a little too long. Clarke matches his stare, swallowing down some moisture into her throat as it suddenly grows dry. Mr. Blake’s smile wavers, dissipating in a small tug of his lips. He takes a step closer, etching away from the balcony. The tips of his shoes bump against the legs of Clarke’s chair, and he draws back slightly.

“I like your company,” Mr. Blake confesses. He pauses, Clarke’s stare growing more intense. “You live and breathe this presidency, and I live and breathe my job. Everyone else here has got something or someone to go back to.”

“You have a sister,” Clarke points out.

“I do,” Mr. Blake nods. “And she’s got something and someone to go back to. Her life doesn’t revolve around the White House.” Clarke screws her lips shut. “Your job is obviously more important than mine. But I’m dedicated to my job, like you are yours.”

“So we’re both workaholics,” Clarke observes with the quirk of her eyebrow.

“I suppose,” he comments fondly. “I guess I need to find the amusement somewhere. Behind the meetings and policies and threats on your life. I wanted to extend the same courtesy to you, Madam President.”

Clarke tears her gaze away from him, glancing back down at her unfinished painting. She tries to figure out why she hates it so much, because aside from the brief correction, all the technical aspects are superb. It’s probably some of her best work with shadows and lighting, and yet Clarke’s stomach coils at the sight of it. And then, she lets Mr. Blake’s words sink in.

Staring back up at him, Clarke sighs, “You can call me Clarke.”

Mr. Blake furrows his eyebrows. “No, I don’t think I can.”

“I’m telling you that you can.”

“You getting tired of hearing Madam President?”

A genuine laugh escapes Clarke’s throat, and she finds herself smiling at Mr. Blake. For once, amusement isn’t as prevalent in his eyes, replaced by a sort of wonder and curiosity that intrigues her. He watches her, as if waiting for permission, or an explanation or anything above. It’s the respect attribute about him that Clarke’s learned that he upholds, to a certain degree. All fun and games until it’s down to anything serious.

“I get tired of hearing it from you,” Clarke chides. “Call me Madam President in public. Clarke when it’s just us.”

Mr. Blake allows a smirk to occupy his features now. “You in need of a friend, Madam President?”

She would never have admitted it to him earlier in the year, nor would she have wanted the head of her security detail as a companion. Clarke not only now trusts Mr. Blake with her life, but can trust him with her. There’s an easiness to the two of them, one different than the one she shared with Wells, but entirely still real beyond the realities of this job.

“Maybe I am, Mr. Blake.” Clarke confesses. “Or should I call you Bellamy?”

“Mr. Blake is fine.”

He breaks out into a wolfish grin when she laughs.

* * *

_Term 1, Year 2:_

Clarke becomes accustom to Bellamy being around all the time. He keeps an appropriate distance, always just a door away, always inserting his snarky remarks whenever he deems it fit. It’s odd, how he switches from treating her like the President of the United States to a regular human being to someone she could actually call a friend. He’s always respectful, if not insanely annoying when they’re on their lonesome, but he makes an active effort to insert himself in whichever situation he thinks he should be in.

Including Bellamy, the first year had been – for the most part – smooth sailing. Her policies were mostly backed by the Senate, and the awe of the first woman President was littering throughout press. There were a spare few who did not admire her place in the White House, but it was nothing Clarke couldn’t overcome. 

Hence why Clarke is a little blindsided when Vice President Wallace calls her into a meeting demanding to renegotiate trades with warring countries.

“We will re-evaluate our agreements with these countries when their wars are not overrunning their country,” Clarke insists, narrowing her eyes at Vice President Wallace and his own companions backing him. “We discussed this last week. Our trade agreements are working perfectly fine now.”

“But they could be working better,” Vice President Wallace argues. “We could be bringing in a substantial amount of merchandise if we add a little pressure to our current trade agreements.”

“Add a little pressure?” Clarke scoffs. “You mean send a missile over there to tempt them?”

Vice President Wallace’s throat goes dry. He stifles a cough, trying to play it off, but Clarke knows what he’s getting at. He’s switch to the Democratic party came upon the most recent elections, despite his stance as a Republican years prior. He cited to her – once his presidency campaign fell through – that he had a change of heart, that his values aligned more with the liberal side.

Clarke hadn’t been convinced then, and she certainly isn’t now. It was simply more likely for a Democratic candidate to get elected this time around, and Clarke was leading in the polls. Cage Wallace was looking for a way in, and she was it. But her campaign manager insisted if she didn’t have a male with slightly drastic views from hers to balance her out, she wouldn’t win. And Clarke chose not to take that gamble.

“Plenty of presidents have–” Clarke cuts off Vice President Wallace before he can finish his sentence.

“Well not me,” Clarke snarls. “And I don’t intend to resort to war tactics for a couple of trade agreements that are working perfectly fine at the moment.”

“With all due respect, Clarke–”

“ _Madam President Griffin_.”

Silence stills the room, the weight and hiss of Clarke’s words snaking through the conference room and resonating in their eardrums. Vice President Wallace raises his chin, eyes narrowing slightly, as if daring to challenge her once more. Fury boils through Clarke’s veins, but she can’t raise her voice or even dare to shout, because that would make her look incompetent – a sexist standpoint, but a reality, nonetheless.

Her chest heaves up and down, a feverish look in her eye as Clarke glances around the conference room. Those behind Cage avert their gazes, although the Vice President tries to keep his gaze neutral. Clarke finds herself glancing behind her, locking eyes with her own head of security.

Bellamy’s expression remains stoic, as it always does in professional settings. But the slight head nod his head, the acknowledgement, is the only one that she receives in the room. And while Clarke certainly doesn’t need the validation, she appreciates it, soaks it in and narrows her eyes back in the direction of Vice President Wallace.

* * *

“I never asked,” Bellamy begins, as they’re sitting out on the balcony a couple of weeks later. “Cage Wallace. An odd choice for Vice President.”

Clarke sighs deeply, glancing over the bars of the balcony to the plain of grass outside. This balcony, hidden behind the back of the White House, is a lot more secluded than the one at the front of the building. They come here a lot, the two of them, when all the other security detail have gone home. It’s a routine, almost nightly, or whenever Bellamy’s taken the night shift – which is more often than not. It grounds Clarke, gives her someone to confide in besides a colleague. During these times, Bellamy is a friend.

Out of her peripheral, Clarke can see Bellamy follow her gaze. The plain of grass is dim amongst the outdoor lights, the night sky casting a shadow over the White House. It’s quiet, quieter than the White House ever is during the day. All Clarke can really hear is the chirp of crickets and the steadiness of her and Bellamy’s breathing.

Clarke glances back over to him, a thoughtful smile on her face. In the past couple of months, Bellamy’s become her only personal confidant. Wells is busy with his infant daughter, and the life of a President doesn’t exactly allow Clarke to go out and mingle with people. It’s lonely, as she expected it to be, but she’s grateful she has Bellamy.

“You’ve never asked, but you’ve hinted at it.” Clarke chides. Bellamy swivels his head around to look at her with a smirk. “Raven Reyes would have been my choice, too.”

“Let me guess,” Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest, turning around and leaning his back against the bars of the balcony. “Your advisor didn’t think two women could win the Presidency.”

“Want to know the worst part?” Clarke stifles a laugh, gripping the bars of the balcony. “He was probably right.”

She shakes her head, a hefty sigh emitting from her lips as she turns to glare out at the plain of grass. The sound of crickets fill her eardrums once more, but she can feel Bellamy’s prying eyes on her. He shifts around, hands steady against the bars of the balcony, elbow rubbing against hers. Clarke looks up to him, watching the sparkle in his eye, before her gaze drifts down to the scar on his lip.

Clarke rattles herself out of it, lifting her gaze back up to meet Bellamy’s. “My whole life, I’ve been around men like Cage. Men who think they deserve a position just because of their status, of their wealth, of their _gender_. They think it’s their birthright. Forget the hard work, forget any actual intelligence.” She sighs deeply, shaking her head. “It seems a lot of people think that way, even still.”

“The rest of the world hasn’t caught up to you,” Bellamy says. “But you, Madam President, are already taking this country by storm.” Clarke rolls her eyes, a breathy laugh escaping from her. “Hey. I mean it. You’ve enacted programs to reunite separated families caused by the previous administration, strengthened relations with other countries–”

“While I love hearing about myself,” Clarke interjects with a sly smile. “I _know_. That may sound arrogant, but I know I’m doing a good job. And I shouldn’t expect recognition for it, but sometimes…”

Clarke trails off, and the two stand in the silence of her words hanging above their heads. She stares at Bellamy, their eyes seemingly always locking on one another, and there’s a sparkle in his eye that reminds her why she’s gravitated to him so much over these past couple of months. There’s a genuineness to him that she doesn’t find in most people in politics, one that she hopes is never corrupted by this world.

“Sometimes it’s nice to hear,” Bellamy reminds her with a smile. “So let me brag about you, won’t you?”

A hearty laugh bursts from her, and Bellamy grins at the sight. Her cheeks start to ache from smiling at him for too long, but Bellamy still has the same cheesy grin on his face. Staring at him makes her want to break into a larger smile, but she contains it, for not the blush that creeps onto her cheeks.

Clarke tears her gaze away from him, staring back out at the plain of grass. “I never thought I’d say this, but I enjoy your company, Bellamy Blake.”

“I knew you would,” Bellamy shrugs. “Why do you think I insisted to stay by your side twenty four seven?”

“Because you’re obsessed with me?”

“Well, there’s that, too.”

A warm chuckle emits from Bellamy’s chest as Clarke playfully swats at his arm. Everything about Bellamy is warm, and inviting behind the brick wall he builds in his professional life. Clarke supposes she has that stature to herself, too, a façade protecting who she really is. The President can’t have everybody knowing the secrecies of her life, and while she doesn’t have many, it’s a lifestyle she’s become accustom to since she was a child.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Clarke starts, eyes squinting curiously. “How someone like you chose a job like this?”

“Good pay,” is Bellamy’s immediate response.

Clarke’s teeth run over her lower lip. “There’s more to it.”

“You saying I’m not qualified for the job, Madam President?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I already get enough psycho-analysis from my sister, Clarke.”

“I’m not trying to analyze you, I’m just curious.” Clarke admits with a shrug. “You studied Criminology, you chose to be in that field. But protecting the small town of Arkadia is a miniscule scale compared to protecting the President.”

Bellamy sighs deeply, gripping a little tighter onto the bars of the balcony. Clarke notes how his knuckles turn white, fearful she may have struck a sore spot without intentionally realizing it. The reality is, she knows everything about the logistics of Bellamy’s life before she even formally met him. It’s a part of the process of working for someone as high profile as the President. She and Clarke vetted all their applications, including Bellamy, extensively.

It’s a mystery to her, however, why this question gets Bellamy so tense. Similar to how she has no true idea why someone from a small town, with strong core values would leave his quiet family life for the fast paced life of politics. Not when there was no major incidents or blowouts that indicated such an upheaval.

His gaze drifts over to her, his hardened expression softening as he takes her in. Clarke stands still, telling him she’s here without saying a word. Bellamy’s shoulders droop, his grip lessening on the bars.

“Sorry,” Clarke says. “I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy smiles softly. “I just – I came here thinking nobody would truly know me. Not really wanting people to.”

“That’s a lonely life,” Clarke comments.

“I guess,” Bellamy shrugs, a casualty to his voice that Clarke’s accustom to hearing. “It never really bothered me. The people in my life were moving forward, and I felt like my life was at this standstill. My sister was getting married, I no longer needed to be around to raise her. What was next?”

Clarke nods her head slowly. “It’s a big change. Leaving Arkadia for Washington.”

“It was one I needed,” Bellamy insists. His eyes linger on her. “One I’m glad I took.”

She finds her breath being caught in her throat. Clarke coughs, trying to level herself. It’s never hard to regain her composure, it’s a skill she’s had to build being in this profession. Yet, when it comes to Bellamy, she finds herself wavering.

“I’m glad you did,” Clarke admits earnestly. She hesitates, but adds, “I’m glad I met you.”

A small smile lifts to Bellamy’s face. “I’m glad I met you, too, Madam President.”

Their stares linger on one another, Clarke’s blue eyes melting into the warmth of his brown ones. The quip of his lips brings a smile to hers, and she suddenly can’t remember a time she was so opposed to his company.

* * *

Vice President Wallace catches them walking in the halls a couple of months later. He nearly passes them, Clarke merely acknowledging Cage with the brief nod of her head. She launches back into telling Bellamy about this painting she’d just started, one of fire melting against the snow in a fury mess of oranges and blues.

“When can I see it?” Bellamy inquires.

“When it’s done,” Clarke scoffs.

“That’s not fair. Don’t I get a sneak peek?”

That halts Vice President Wallace in his tracks. Clarke can feel his eyes burn holes into her back, as he’s surely done many times before. She doesn’t hesitate, just continues walking, has learned not to when it comes to people giving her odd stares, but Bellamy stops, swiveling his head over his shoulder to glower at Cage. The Vice President only gives him a polite smile, which Bellamy does not take well.

“Mr. Blake,” Vice President Wallace clasps his hands behind his back. “I feel as if I never see you without Madam President Griffin by your side.”

“It’s my job to be nearby,” Bellamy says shortly. He tilts his head to the side condescendingly. “Does your security detail not provide you with the same courtesy?”

Vice President Wallace presses his lips into a tight line. “I’m fully capable of handling myself.”

“As is Madam President Griffin,” Bellamy narrows his eyes, stepping in before Clarke can interject herself. “It’s just part of the job description that I am around, regardless.”

Clarke takes a step forward, creating a barrier between Vice President Wallace and Bellamy. She swivels her head around to stare at Bellamy. “Mr. Blake, will you give Vice President Wallace and me a minute?”

Bellamy doesn’t seem to want to take up that offer, but he knows it’s not a choice. He doesn’t wish to undermine Clarke, nor does he want to disobey her orders in front of Cage. He gives Clarke a lasting stare, a silent promise that he’ll be close by. Clarke’s small smile tells him that she knows, before she nods her head, sending him on his way.

The second that Bellamy rounds the corner, Vice President Wallace steps towards Clarke. “What are you painting, Madam President?”

It takes Clarke aback, for a moment. She recovers quickly, flashing the fakest smile she possibly can. “It’s a mess, really. Just threw orange and blue on a canvas and called it a painting.”

Dumbing herself down in front of men is something Clarke will never be used to. It comes easy, like a flick of the tongue or a muscle memory, but the churn of her insides never fade when she has to resort to it. It’s not often she has to enact that part of her façade nowadays, but in situations like these, in which Cage is getting on her ass, she rather please him and be on with it. Let him think he’s smarter than her. Everyone with a working braincell knows the truth.

“Well if Mr. Blake gets a sneak peak,” Vice President Wallace starts, with a sinister smile creeping across his features. “Don’t I?”

They’re both unmarried, he and Clarke. They’re one of the first President and Vice President duos without marital partners, although Clarke’s witnessed a slew of unnamed woman leave his quarters at unearthly hours – undoubtedly after signing nondisclosure agreements. She could never have the luxury of having multiple people in and out of her room in a night. Most definitely, she could not have anyone in her life that wasn’t a man _and_ a politician.

Clarke could already read the headlines: _Unmarried President Griffin Sleeps Around with Nameless Man_ or _President Griffin Brings Home Mystery Woman Who is More Than a Friend_. The public who already despise her would have a field day, and there’s no way she would be re-elected. Not if they find out that she’s bisexual, or if they find her with someone they deem less than respectable.

Someone that Vice President Wallace considers is Bellamy.

“He doesn’t get a sneak peek,” Clarke insists with a stern voice. “He was simply trying to make conversation.”

“My security detail don’t try to make conversation by asking about personal interests,” Vice President Wallace hums.

“Odd. Maybe they wish not to speak to you instead.”

“Maybe. I prefer it that way. Don’t you?”

Clarke tilts her head to the side, that plastic smile on her face weaning. “No. I don’t.”

Vice President Wallace glowers down at her, but only for a moment, before he remembers who she is. A fake smile, not nearly as good as hers, appears on his features. “Agree to disagree, I suppose. Have a nice day, President Griffin.”

The minute Vice President Wallace turns his back to her, Clarke does the same, storming down the hall. She could chalk it up to her just itching to get as far away from Cage as possible, but there’s a yearning in her chest for her to get back to Bellamy.

He’s waiting for her around the corner. Bellamy straightens the moment she appears, notes the distress across her features. “What did he say to you? I’ll–”

“Nothing,” Clarke interjects with the shake of her head. “We just have to be more careful. That’s all.”

“More careful?” Bellamy’s eyebrows furrow. “We’re just friends.”

“I know.” Clarke ignores the pang in her chest. “We just…need to keep a safe, professional distance when we’re in public.”

Hurt flashes across Bellamy’s face. He covers it up quite quickly, however, although his expression is already ingrained into Clarke’s brain, plaguing her chest. He nods, his features hardening. Clarke stares back, lips pursing into a tight line, refraining from bursting out into apologies and scrapping the whole idea. She likes having Bellamy close, physically and in their friendship.

But she doesn’t say anything. They’ll still be friends behind closed doors. They’ll always have each other at the end of the day.

Bellamy motions for her to step forward, and she does, leading the way down the hall while he keeps a respectable distance, a couple feet behind her.

* * *

_Term 1, Year 3:_

Clarke meets Governor Lexa Woods at a press conference held at the White House, where many of the state leaders have congregated for the day. Bellamy stands at the door, with one of the members of Cage’s security detail, eyes surveying over the room. She locks eyes with him across the room while standing at the catering table, giving him a small smile in greeting, to which he returns with the quirk of his lips, just as Governor Woods taps her on the shoulder.

“Madam President Griffin,” Governor Woods bows her head. “I believe we have not had the chance to meet one on one.”

“Governor Woods,” Clarke turns to her with a smile. “I believe we have, when I reached Texas during the campaign tour.”

“Yes, during work hours,” Governor Woods recalls. “I meant aside from the politics.”

“Aside from the politics?” Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Is there ever a time we’re away from the politics?”

She expects a laugh, but instead Lexa just smiles amicably. There’s a calmness to the Governor that Clarke has trouble deciphering, but she also had this issue when she first met her on the campaign tour. Clarke could never really tell if Lexa truly liked her, although she was always polite, she was usually quite reserved.

“I suppose not,” Lexa states. “However, I would love to have the chance to get to know you personally, if you’d allow me to.”

It takes a minute for Clarke to figure out that Lexa is asking her out. From her knowledge, Lexa has no current partner, and evidently neither does Clarke. She’s surprised, to be honest, but a little intrigued. Lexa is beautiful, and in politics, and in every way, shape and form her type. They would undoubtedly meet on the downlow, but she wouldn’t put it past the media and Vice President Wallace to think of them as just friends.

Clarke’s gaze flickers up to Bellamy, as if on instinct. He’s watching the two of them, his usual stoic expression morphing into a look of disdain. Clarke squints in confusion. Lexa only stares on at her, glancing over her shoulder to follow Clarke’s gaze and catch sight of Bellamy across the room. Lexa turns back to Clarke just as she looks back at her.

“Sorry,” Clarke apologizes for the absent-mindedness, a small smile taking up her features. “I would love to, Governor Woods.”

* * *

“You’re dating Governor Woods?”

Clarke scoffs, sticking her chopsticks out in Bellamy’s direction teasingly. “It was one date.”

The cool wind of air whisks through Clarke and Bellamy’s hair, causing her to curl deeper into her chair. She hugs the takeout box in her lap closer to her, using her chopsticks to grab some more noodles and bring it to her mouth. She peers at Bellamy over the takeout box, watching as he eyes her through narrowed slits.

“What?” Clarke laughs. “She was nice!”

“I’m glad,” Bellamy deadpans. “You think you’re going to go on another one?”

“I think so,” Clarke shrugs. “I like her.”

Bellamy hasn’t touched his takeout box since he asked her about the date. He hadn’t accompanied her on it, surprisingly, and definitely not because he didn’t want to. Clarke insisted on having another member of the security detail stand outside the restaurant while she and Lexa had a ‘business meeting’ over dinner. That was last night, and Bellamy has been waiting all day to hound her about it.

“Don’t be jealous,” Clarke smirks. “You’ll find your one true love one day.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I’m not looking for my one true love.”

“That’s when you least expect it.”

Clarke shoves another mouthful of noodles past her lips as Bellamy sets his takeout box aside on the little corner table between them. He slumps against the chair, deep in thought, and Clarke can only find it amusing. Bellamy’s one of her closest friends, and he must be used to her elaborating because he seems at a loss now. No snarky remarks or clever quips to follow.

“Come on, I’m just kidding,” Clarke insists, setting her takeout box in her lap. “It’s casual.”

“Casual,” Bellamy quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t want anything serious?”

“Not right now,” Clarke shrugs. “The world would be in uproar if they found out I had a girlfriend. Lexa and I agreed we would keep things casual for now.”

“For now,” Bellamy tests the words on his tongue. “So eventually…”

“Maybe. We’ll see where it goes. But definitely not anytime during my presidency.”

Bellamy hums to himself thoughtfully as Clarke returns to devouring her takeout box. She barely notices Bellamy’s eyes flick back to her, watching her carefully. He’s always watching her, Clarke’s just used to it by now. It’s a safety, a security that she’s grown used to, and one she’ll miss when her presidency finally comes to its end.

“What about after?” Bellamy inquires. “You’ve made it past your second term, can finally settle down. What do you do?”

Clarke leans back in her chair, tongue running over her lower lip. “I’d like to settle down for a bit before launching back into work. Maybe get married, have a couple kids.”

“Kids?” Bellamy smiles.

“Is that so hard to believe?” Clarke responds defensively.

“No. No, not at all.”

His eyes pour into hers, that warmth resonating throughout her body, securing her just as firmly as his presence always has. Clarke doesn’t think he means to do it. He knows she’s aware that he keeps her safe, physically at least. But it extends beyond that. It’s like he can reach into her soul, the way that he looks at her, promise that she’s always going to be okay as long as he’s near without even saying a word.

Clarke clears her throat, suddenly hyperaware of the warmth that’s trickling through her skin. “That would be if I get a second term, though. If I don’t–”

“You will,” Bellamy insists. “Majority of this country loves you.”

“I barely made it last time,” Clarke recalls with a sigh, setting her takeout box on the table beside his. “I’m surprised there haven’t been any assassination attempts.”

“Don’t make my job any harder by jinxing it,” Bellamy winces.

Clarke rolls her eyes playfully, although her eyes cast downwards to their feet, the tips of their toes bumping against one another slightly. “The campaign tour starts soon. I have to talk to Cage, get everything on track.”

Bellamy shifts in his chair, “How has he been?”

“He’s been Cage. As per usual,” Clarke rests her head against the back of the chair. “But he’ll get his shit together for the campaign tour. He wants this just as badly as I do.”

“Nobody wants anything as badly as you do,” Bellamy points out.

Clarke lifts her head, smirking. “Damn right.” Bellamy smirks back at her, a shared confidence that the two have. “You’re out of a job if I lose, you know.”

“I’ll always have you,” Bellamy teases. “You’ll never get rid of me.”

Clarke won’t say it, but her heart thumps a little harder, and she sincerely hopes that that’s true.

* * *

_Term 1, Year 4:_

Bellamy is always around, Clarke’s pretty positive she hasn’t been able to shake him since her first day on the job. But now with the election coming up, Bellamy sticks to her side like glue, and the only way she can pry him off is if she’s having a private moment with her parents, or Wells or Lexa. All of which, he takes great offense to his dismissal.

“You’ve got to be careful,” Bellamy hisses into her ear. “The election is in a couple weeks. There’s some crazy people who don’t want to see you win.”

“I understand that,” Clarke whispers back to him. “But I have to be seen as an individual, I can’t have so many men constantly on me when I’m in public. It gives off the wrong impression.”

“What are we whispering about over here?” Vice President Wallace’s voice snakes through the airplane, before he appears, planting himself in the seat across Clarke and Bellamy.

Clarke stiffens, instantly scooting away from Bellamy. There’s no sense in lying, not when she doesn’t have to. “Mr. Blake thinks I should enhance my security detail.”

“Oh, no sense in that.” Cage leans back in his chair. “We’re a fan favorite, Clarke and I.”

While Clarke highly doubts that, she settles back in her chair with a smile anyways. Out of her peripheral, she can see Bellamy cringe, which Cage takes note of. His eyes narrow at Bellamy, not that he’s phased by it. Vice President Wallace crosses one knee over the other, cementing himself in the seat, much to Clarke and Bellamy’s dismay. The rest of the plane ride is quiet, although Clarke can feel Bellamy itching to further plead his case.

* * *

“Projections look good,” Lexa notes to her. “At this point, your second term is guaranteed.”

“Don’t say that,” Clarke groans. “You’ll jinx it.”

Lexa quirks an eyebrow. “There’s no such thing.”

Clarke sighs, settling into the cushions of the bed as Lexa rests against the headboard, scrolling on her phone. It’s less romantic than Clarke anticipated, but she supposes it’s better that way. They’re exclusive, but their arrangement is still casual. Lexa has no desire to settle down with her career on its peak, and thankfully, neither does Clarke. It’s easier for her to get up from bed that way.

To Lexa’s credit, the projections _do_ look good. She’s not the only person that’s been telling her that. Many of her advisors, colleagues, her friends, Bellamy – they all have been telling Clarke just how likely it is that she’ll be given a second term as President. It just makes Clarke more anxious, antsy to have something so close but yet not quite hers to claim just yet.

Lexa and her place are supposed to be an escape from that. Lately, however, Lexa’s only been able to talk her ear off about the election. And while Clarke appreciates the enthusiasm, this is supposed to be a break from the craziness of politics, just for the time being.

Placing her phone on the nightstand, Lexa leans over to peck Clarke’s lips. “When do you have to go?”

Right on cue, headlights flash through Lexa’s bedroom window. Clarke groans against her lips before Lexa draws back, sighing as she plops against the bed. The headlights flash once more, a signal to get going and Clarke swings her legs off of Lexa’s bed and stands to her feet, reaching for her discarded blouse on the floor.

“Mr. Blake is always prompt,” Lexa comments as Clarke buttons her blouse.

“Bellamy never brings me here,” Clarke stifles a laugh. “My driver does, and another of my security detail.”

There’s a pause, one that Clarke doesn’t really notice as she pulls on her pants. She hears the shift from the bed, turns to see Lexa sitting up curiously. “Mr. Blake accompanies you everywhere. He doesn’t bring you here?”

Furrowing her eyebrows, Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “No. Is that odd?”

“It is,” Lexa admits. “I’d look into that if I were you.”

This time, Clarke laughs out loud, without restraint. “Look into it? What do you think Bellamy’s plotting in the two hours a week that I’m here?”

“I don’t think he’s plotting anything,” Lexa shrugs. “He’s your friend, after all. At least, to you he is.”

“He is a friend. My best friend,” Clarke says defensively. “He would never harm me.”

Lexa peers at Clarke, with a slight wince to her eyes. There’s something she’s not getting. Lexa’s not annoyed, but curious, as if there’s something obvious in front of Clarke that she’s missing. Clarke would pester, prod Lexa to figure out what it is that she’s not understanding, but the headlights flash again and there’s no time to do so.

Clarke says her goodbyes to Lexa, promises to see her same time next week, before heading down to her vehicle. She puts one foot in front of the other, opens the door and closes it behind her, watches as the driver opens up the backseat, climbs inside – and yet it’s all muscle memory, because all she can think about is what Lexa meant by _looking into_ Bellamy. She trusts Bellamy more than anyone. He’s not only her closest confidant, but her most trusted colleague.

As expected, Clarke finds Bellamy guarding her bedroom door when she returns to the White House. “Do you ever take a day off?”

Bellamy smirks, “Do you?”

“I’m the President.”

“And I’m the head of the President’s security detail.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, trudging past him to her bedroom door. Her hand is on the doorknob, when she remembers Lexa’s words. Looking into Bellamy. She swivels her head over her shoulder, peering at him as he waits for her to enter her bedroom. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, staring back at her with peaked curiosity.

“Bellamy,” Clarke starts, edging away from the doorknob. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“What?” Bellamy scoffs. “You practically knew everything about me before we met.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Clarke shakes her head. There’s a pause, and Bellamy appears just as confused as she feels. “Why do you never bring me to Lexa’s?”

Bellamy chuckles unevenly. “I thought you needed a break from my face.”

“Bellamy.”

“Clarke, come on. Plenty of other members of your security detail handle a variety of your tasks. Why is Lexa’s any different?”

It dawns on her then. “Because Lexa’s not a task to you.”

He stiffens, visibly. Another pause, a recollection of thoughts, he’s calculating something in his head. Clarke catches it, and she steps forward, words suddenly spewing from Bellamy’s lips. “She’s not. She’s a person, she’s your girlfriend–”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Clarke points out. “Maybe if you met her, you’d be more comfortable–”

“I’m plenty comfortable, Clarke.” Bellamy scoffs.

“It seems like you don’t like her.”

“I have no opinion of her.”

“You have an opinion on everyone and everything in my life.”

The bitterness in her voice sparks irritation in Bellamy, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I do, because I’m trying to keep you safe.”

Clarke, a wave of exhausting washing over her, sighs and reaches for the doorknob. “I’m not having this conversation right now.”

“Maybe we should,” Bellamy snarls. “The past couple of months, all you’ve been doing is second guessing my decision-making.”  
  


“I haven’t been second guessing it, I’m saying right now the extra protection isn’t necessary.” Clarke seethes, angling her body towards him. “I’m trying to win an election here–”

“And I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“Oh, stop it, Bellamy. There are no active threats on my life–”

“That you know of–”

“That requires this much babysitting–”

“Babysitting? Is that what you think I do all day–”

“No, what you do all day is follow me around–”

“Because if something happens to you, I won’t survive it!” Bellamy’s screech fills the halls of Clarke’s wing, undeniably heard by some of the night staff. His eyes widen with the realization, and Clarke has trouble finding her heartbeat. He lowers his voice, “If something happens to you, Clarke, I wouldn’t be able to take it. I don’t know what I’d do–”

Clarke surges forward, nearly colliding with his chest, eyes pouring into his. Bellamy closes his eyes, breathing heavily. The weight of all that’s been said weighs on Clarke’s chest, and she feels like she has to gasp for a breath, but looking at Bellamy alleviates the pressure. The feeling of being safe, of the security, returns, as it always does when she’s around Bellamy. She’s so safe with him, and he never feels the same when he’s around her.

“Hey,” Clarke says softly, with a crack in her voice. “I’m here, Bellamy. I’m okay.”

“Because I’m making sure you are,” Bellamy opens his eyes, a fire ignited in them. “This was just a job at first. A job I was good at.”

“You still are good at it, you always have been.” Clarke insists with the shake of her head. “Bellamy, where is this coming from?”

Bellamy looks like he’s going to tell her. The fire from his eyes dissipate into a softness, a vulnerability that Clarke knows is real. His warmth is still there, buried under a wave of sadness that washes over his features, as he peers down at her. There’s something he wants to say, Clarke knows him well enough to deduce that. She just doesn’t know what it is, if only she could pry a bit more without the two of them exploding all at once.

There’s a change in his expression, his vulnerability morphing back into a stoic façade that tends to take over in professional settings. He draws back from her, and Clarke yearns to reel him back in, to reiterate that she’s here, that she always will be. It’s a promise that he doesn’t believe, that she knows she doesn’t have the capacity or knowledge to be making.

“You have a big day tomorrow,” Bellamy clears his throat. “You should rest.”

“No, Bellamy–” Clarke reaches out for him, but he pulls back.

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

Clarke screws her lips shut, the sting of tears all too unfamiliar, and yet all too right for this moment. She blinks, trying to swat them away, but it doesn’t work, instead only blurring her vision and the Bellamy that stands before her. Wiping away at the tear that slides past her eyelid, Clarke ducks her head to avert from his gaze, and without a word slips into her bedroom for the night.

* * *

Bellamy is there – like he always is – when Clarke wins the election.

Cheers erupt in the conference room, and a couple of people come up to Clarke for a hug. She’s ecstatic, over the moon really, so much so that she even allows Vice President Wallace to clap his hand on her shoulder in a congratulatory motion. And yet, the moment she finally tears her eyes away from the screen, she’s scanning the room for Bellamy.

He’s standing by the doorway, with another one of the members of her security detail. It looks like that member is attempting to chat with him, but Bellamy’s completely tuned out. He’s already staring at her by the time she starts looking for him, eyes locking on an instant, almost like a reflex for the two of them at this point.

Her smile diminishes, recalling their conversation the night before. Bellamy seems to have a knack for reading her mind, it comes just as easily as him making her feel safe. A smile, a genuine one, filled of amusement and pride and everything so akin to Bellamy Blake lifts onto his features. He mouths to her, _I knew it_.

A grin appears on her features, and the burst in her chest finally explodes. She tears her gaze away from him, if only to respond to the congratulations she’s receiving from her colleagues, but that smile of his cements itself into her mind.

* * *

The following night, Clarke’s scheduled to make her speech post-election results. Four years ago, she stood on this stage and stated her excitement for her first term, for all the people that allowed her to get to that point. In her head, she was thanking herself for all her hard work, and it’s something she still wants to slip into her speech, but she knows it wouldn’t be appropriate. She’s got an urge to do so, though.

“How’s the speech?” Bellamy asks, just moments before she approaches the podium.

“Grateful, nostalgic, with some new phrases to entice the crowd,” Clarke relays with a smirk. “You’ll love it.”

“Do I get a dedication?”

“Maybe for my third term.”

“Haha, you’re so funny.”

Clarke beams, the overwhelming feeling of the conclusion of the election, the upcoming commencement of her second and final term as President, everything she did to get here, and Bellamy smiling down at her – it’s almost too much. Almost.

The ray of sunlight that threatens to burst out of her diminishes, if only slightly, the longer Clarke stares at Bellamy, memories of the couple of nights before flooding back to her. Bellamy seems to note this, too, the amusement in his grin fading into a placid, half smile.

“Hey,” Clarke starts. “We’re okay. Right, Bellamy?”

“Of course,” Bellamy responds without missing a beat. “I still have to keep you alive for another four more years.”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke swats at Bellamy’s chest, earning a boisterous laugh from him. Before he could sneak in some snarky remark, the prompter sounds over the speaker, signaling that it’s time for Clarke to head on stage. She gives Bellamy a warning smile, which he returns with a smirk, before taking a step back to approach the podium.

“Madam President,” Bellamy calls out to her. Clarke pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “Takeout on the balcony after this?”

A smirk appears on Clarke’s face. “Only if I choose where we order from.”

The safety and security sinks into Clarke the moment he grins. She turns her gaze back forward, podium in her line of vision, and takes a deep breath. She’s done this once before, and this will be the last time she ever gets to do this. She may as well soak it all in while she can, take it in stride and never look back. This is her day, and her presidency.

Clarke strides onto the stage, a roar of cheers sounding from the crowd the moment that she appears. A bright smile appears on her face, as she waves towards the crowd, igniting another slew of cheers. She stands before the podium, hands pressed on either side of the wood, and stares out into the blurry crowd, full of her supporters and people rooting for her.

It reminds her of one of her biggest supporters, and out of habit, Clarke glances to her side. Bellamy, along with the rest of her security detail, have lined up behind her, all in their stationary positions. His pupils flick to the side, the tips of his lips edging upwards into a smirk, winking back at her. Clarke’s heart does a flip, before she turns back to the crowd that’s calmed into silence.

“Good evening, everyone.” Clarke greets the crowd. She takes a deep breath, her speech ingrained in her mind. “It is with my greatest pleasure that I–”

A hard shove to her side, and Clarke lands on the floor of the stage with a thump that sounds a lot like a gunshot. Confused and disorientated, Clarke lifts her pounding head, a blaring in her ears as she scans around the stage. The crowd has erupted into screams of terror, but everyone’s a blur with the lights and the ache vibrating Clarke’s brain. She doesn’t make sense of what’s going on, sprawled out on the ground, until she glances across from her.

At her feet is Bellamy, limbs stretched out on the ground, eyes wide open in shock and blood pouring from his chest. There’s a ringing in her ears, but she can see Bellamy mouthing at her to go. _Go where?_ Chest heaving, sense of security gone, Clarke scrambles to her knees, trying to crawl over to him as the blood pours from his chest.

Before she can even get close to him, the rest of her security detail crowd around her, blocking Clarke’s view of Bellamy and ushering her off of the stage.

“B-Bellamy,” Clarke calls out, but she can barely hear her own voice. So many people are around her, carrying her off stage. They’re leaving him there. “N-No, I have to get Bellamy. Go get Bellamy!”

Nobody’s listening to her. They’re all too concerned with ushering her off the stage. Someone is carrying her, another is blocking her vision. She stretches her arms out, trying to swat the figures away from her. She catches a glimpse of Bellamy, bleeding out behind the podium. He’s not looking at her anymore, his mouth is no longer moving, but the blood continues to seep from his chest, a large clot staining his white shirt.

“Put me down!” Clarke orders. “I’m your President, you have to listen to me!” They don’t listen, continuing to carry her off, Bellamy lessening from her sight. “Bellamy! _Bellamy!_ ”

Clarke’s screeches are of no use, her security detail ignoring her pleas. She disappears off the stage, and the last thing ingrained in her mind is Bellamy bleeding out in the middle of the stage, planted right where she was standing seconds before.

* * *

Burying her face in her hands, Clarke tries to breathe. She finds it hard, impossible to gasp for air, perched in the waiting room chair in a secluded part of the hospital. There’s a lot of people around her, ranging from her security detail to Wells, and they’re all chatting quietly amongst themselves, leaving Clarke to her lonesome. If any of them got close, she may just burst, and collapse on the floor.

Bellamy was rushed into surgery just hours ago. His sister is on the first flight here, having witnessed her own brother being shot on national television. There’s reporters outside, itching for a statement, for any clarification as to what the hell happened, but Clarke doesn’t know. She doesn’t even care. All she can think about is Bellamy bleeding out onto the stage after having shoved her away from the bullet.

“Clarke,” Wells quiet voice seeps into her ear. She feels him sit down in the chair beside her. “This is not your fault–”

“He always told me I had to be careful,” Clarke croaks, lifting her head to stare at Wells with bloodshot eyes. “I never thought–”

“I know,” Wells throws his arm around her, hugging Clarke to his side. “I know.”

The rest of her security detail are there, whispering amongst themselves, wondering why the President of the United States is sobbing into her best friend’s shoulder in the name of one the people that are supposed to service her. At this point, any façade that Clarke had perfected, practiced her whole life in order to guarantee this position, fades from existence as she weeps.

Wells shoos Clarke’s security detail out of the room, assigning them to designated entrance and exit spots littering the hallway. The entire wing of the hospital is shut down in name of the President of the United States and the head of her security detail, but Clarke needs to be on her own, with people who are actually close to her. After all, she can’t be with Bellamy.

“I can’t believe…” Clarke takes a shaky breath, collecting her thoughts. “No. I can. Of course he would jump in front of a bullet for me. _Of fucking course_.”

“It’s his job, Clarke,” Wells says carefully.

Clarke stares at the blank wall ahead of her, and considers it carefully. “It’s not just that.”

Wells is quiet, because he knows it, too. He places his hand on her back, rubbing smoothly and not saying a word. She can barely feel his touch, can only think about her and Bellamy sitting on the balcony, the ring of his deep voice resonating in her ear.

The click of heels disrupts Clarke from her thoughts. Lexa appears around the corner, with two of her own security detail. Clarke stands her feet, feverishly wiping under her eyes, not that it’ll do any good. Her skin is blotchy and eyes are stained red, she’s a complete mess – completely not what a President is supposed to be.

“Lexa,” Clarke greets her. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see if you were alright,” Lexa says. Her gaze drifts to Wells. “Mr. Jaha, I’ve heard so much about you.”

Wells stands beside Clarke, offering a polite smile. He extends his hand, to which Lexa accepts with a firm shake. “Governor Woods. Please call me Wells.”

Lexa nods her head in affirmation, but doesn’t say anything, before her gaze shifts back to Clarke expectantly. Hesitantly, Clarke glances to Wells, who’s waiting for her cue. She gives him a tight smile, reassuring him as she places her hand on his shoulder.

“Could you give us a minute, Wells?” Clarke asks.

“I’ll just be outside,” Wells informs her, before he slips past Lexa and her security detail.

The security detail accompanying Lexa follow Wells around the corner, per a simple motion from Lexa. They move silently, without a remark or clarification, and Clarke’s mind flashes to Bellamy and how that certainly would have not happened if he was here. She has the urge to burst into tears again, just as Lexa walks towards her.

Lexa brings Clarke in for a short embrace, before drawing back from her. “How is Mr. Blake?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke can’t stop her voice from cracking. “The doctors took him into surgery a couple hours ago. But it didn’t look good.”

“I could tell,” Lexa states with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Clarke.” There’s a brief pause, a millisecond for the words to sink in. “Is your team already on nabbing the culprit?”

Clarke peers at Lexa with furrowed eyebrows. “Vice President Cage is taking care of it. But it’s not my concern right now.”

“Not your concern? Somebody tried to kill you, Clarke.”

“And whoever it was could have killed Bellamy. I’m only thinking about him right now.”

Confusion etches itself into every aspect of Lexa’s features, overtaking any form of comfort as she draws back from Clarke. She knows it may be unconventional, and she’s never one to leave Cage to do anything on his own, but she needs to be here for Bellamy right now. Nobody would have access to her at this hospital, not with the high security and four walls she’s structured in. The only person who’s life is up in the air is Bellamy’s.

“You care about him,” Lexa observes.

“Of course I do,” Clarke narrows her eyes. “He’s my best friend.”

“He’s more.”

Clarke screws her lips shut. She’s not sure what to say to that, not sure she’s able to process what it all means right now. Of course Bellamy is more. He’s always been more. She’s just not exactly sure what that more entails.

“Madam President,” the voice makes Clarke spin on her heels. Bellamy’s doctor, Dr. Jackson, stands before her. Before Clarke can even stride over to her, Dr. Jackson informs her, “He’s alright. The bullet just missed his major arteries. He’s a lucky man.”

She certainly doesn’t feel like he is. This job is no good luck charm.

“Thank you,” Clarke says earnestly, a breath she didn’t know she was holding releasing from her lungs. “Thank you so much. Can I see him?”

“Of course,” Dr. Jackson nods. “Follow me.”

Clarke takes a couple steps, marching behind Dr. Jackson before she remembers that Lexa had been standing behind her. She stalls, swiveling around to see Lexa, watching her expectantly, with a careful look in her eye. Clarke can’t say anything that would be of sustenance, nothing that Lexa doesn’t already know. She stares at her apologetically.

“Go,” Lexa urges her with a small smile. “He needs you.”

Never before would Clarke ever think that Bellamy needed her. Not when his whole job is centered on him protecting her, on keeping her alive. And she supposes he did just that, and Clarke aches to be the person that he needs right now. She nods her head to Lexa, before jogging off to follow Dr. Tsing into Bellamy’s hospital room.

Clarke spends the next couple of hours holding Bellamy’s hand as he sleeps. He’s not peaceful, even when he’s asleep, his eyebrows permanently furrowed, his lips pressed into a firm line. She would find this amusing, and some part of it warms her – as he has a tendency to do – yet now, all she can do is pray that he opens his eyes. All she wants to see is those brown eyes meet hers, hear his voice.

His hand quivers against hers, his fingers wrapping lightly around her skin. Clarke nearly gasps, eyes brimming with fresh tears at the movement. Her gaze darts from their intertwined hands to his face, as his head turns slightly, his eyes fluttering open. It takes him a minute to gain his footing, glancing around the hospital and taking in his surroundings, before his gaze falls on Clarke.

“Clarke,” he breathes out. “Clarke, are you okay?”

Clarke weeps once more, an overjoyed smile taking up her features. “How is it that you’re the one that gets shot and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

A weak smirk appears on Bellamy’s features. “Because it’s in my job description.”

Unable to contain herself any longer, Clarke throws her arms around Bellamy. He groans in pain, to which she mutters her apologies, readjusting herself to lay on the side opposite of his wound. Her weeps subside, if only slightly, staining the shoulder of his medical gown, but neither of them seem to mind. He wraps his arms around Clarke and holds her tight, and if she could, she’d vow to never let him go.

Bellamy’s hand finds the small of her back, his cheek resting against her forehead. “I saw this figure, up in the crew section of the stands–”

“We don’t have to talk about this right now,” Clarke starts, moving her head up to look at him.

“I couldn’t make out his face, but I knew what he was doing. And I just, had to get you out of there.”

Clarke brings her hand up to cup his cheek, noting the tears brimming in his eyes. “Hey. You did. You’re the one that got shot.”

Her attempt to make light of it does nothing for Bellamy. He leans into her palm, and Clarke relishes in the warmth of his skin, in his pumping blood, in the fact that he’s here and alive and in her arms. Bellamy’s nose brushes against her forehead, as he stares down at her. Their eyes lock with one another, both glossy and red.

“I rather it would be me,” Bellamy whispers. “If anything happens to you, I don’t know what I do.”

“Nothing is happening to me,” Clarke insists.

“It could have. It _could have_ –”

“But it _didn’t_. I’m here and you’re here, we’re okay.”

Bellamy doesn’t believe her, she can see by the way he glowers down at her. In all honesty, Clarke’s not sure that she believes it either. But right now, it’s just the two of them, and for now, that’s all that it needs to be.

* * *

_Term 2, Year 1:_

Bellamy returns to work a couple of months post-surgery, although Clarke would have insisted he take a few more weeks to recover. He saunters back into the position, as if there was never a bullet lodged in his chest, with a confidence and woe of the Bellamy that Clarke knew before the mess of blood and screams.

He strides into the Oval Office like he owns it, purposely making a show to bring a smile to Clarke’s face. His arms outstretched, he does a little spin, just for good measure. It works, Clarke breaking out into a grin, just grateful to have him back. He sends her a poised wink, as he strides over to Wells. Bellamy shakes his hand firmly, that signature smirk of his never having wavered.

“Wells, thanks for taking over here while I’ve been gone.” Bellamy says.

“Not a problem, Bellamy. This was my domain first, you know.” Wells laughs.

“And now he’s a family man,” Clarke chides with a playful smile. “The weakest link.”

“Hey, don’t speak ill of your goddaughter.”

“I would never do such a thing. Ingrid is the primary member of the Jaha-Azgeda clan.”

Wells sighs dramatically, turning back to Bellamy who watches the two with a boisterous grin. Clarke can tell he’s relieved to be back, and although it brings a ton more of concern that she would have liked, she’s happy that Bellamy seems to be doing better. It was nice to have Wells step in for the time being, but he has a family to go back to, and she’s ecstatic to have Bellamy so close again.

“Well, good luck with this one,” Wells claps Bellamy on the shoulder, beginning to head for the door.

“Hold on a minute,” Bellamy calls out to him. Wells turns around, a puzzled expression overtaking his features, similar to the confused sprawled across Clarke’s face as Bellamy swivels around to look at her. “The shooter, Dax Donovan. What’s the update on him?”

Clarke instantly makes eye contact with Wells, who sends her a worrisome look. Although Bellamy was the one that was shot, the whole incident was taken as an attack on the President; an assassination attempt nonetheless. The White House was on Lockdown when Clarke returned from the hospital, and for days, they hadn’t found the person responsible. Bellamy had insisted that he could help, even from his bed-ridden orders, but since Wells has stepped into his position, there was not much he could do.

She had preferred it that way – Bellamy not being involved. The bullet that was meant for her had nearly killed him, and Bellamy was vengeful not for himself. Clarke had her intelligence team on the matters, and the White House was under strict surveillance until they had finally found the man responsible; Dax Donovan.

“I told you, Bellamy.” Clarke sighs, glancing back at him. “He was found dead in his apartment. Suicide. It was a lone attack.”

“A lone attack?” Bellamy scoffs, glancing behind him at Wells. “And you believe that? How would he have snuck into a high profile event with a rifle if it was a _lone attack_?”

“Officials have looked into it, as have I, _personally_.” Wells insists, stepping forward carefully. “Security cameras showed him bypassing security, taking a crew member’s uniform from the tent–”

“He knew exactly where to go.” Bellamy points out. “That doesn’t seem like–”

“There was bigotry propaganda all over his apartment. He was obsessed, didn’t want to see me take a second term. Bellamy, we resolved this months ago.” Clarke explains, shaking her head. “I assure you, Dax Donovan had no accomplices. It was just him.”

The explanation hadn’t sat well with Bellamy when Clarke first detailed it to him, and it certainly wouldn’t do any justice now. Wells, along with her intelligence team, had done an extensive job on the investigation, but Bellamy’s perspective has always differed from the rest of them. Clarke believes that part of him doesn’t want to accept it, couldn’t wrap his brain around how it could be so simple and shut, all wrapped up in a bow all before he was released from the hospital.

Clarke has trouble believing it, too. Not that she’ll ever tell Bellamy that. She trusts her investigative team, knows that did everything in their power and more to catch Dax, ensuring that he wasn’t a part of some terrorist organization or a larger conspiracy theory. The reality of the matter didn’t ease the nightmares for her, and she’s sure it hasn’t for Bellamy either.

“Trust me, Bellamy.” Clarke says. He looks at her, eyes pouring into hers as naturally as they always have. “What happened – it’s over. Any following incidents are completely new threats on my life.”

Bellamy doesn’t even crack a smile at the joke. His eyes ooze hurt, regret, everything that Clarke’s been trying to absolve him from these past couple of months. He may never be the same and neither will she, but at least they’ll be forging this new path together.

“I have to get home,” Wells announces. “But if any of you need anything, you know how to reach me.”

Clarke and Bellamy thank Wells for his service as he exits the Oval Office, leaving the two of them alone. Bellamy watches the closed door, a couple of moments after Wells has already left, as if his vision is ingrained on it. Clarke’s eyes train on the back of his head, the heap of curls piled on top of it, all to alike the Bellamy she knew just a few months below, as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed.

But that wouldn’t be true. Aside from the shooting, aside from him _nearly dying_ right in front of her, there was _more_. The way her heart quickens when she catches sight of him, how the warmth that exudes off of him melts into her, how she felt like she was the one dying as he bled out on that stage. There’s more, _so much more_ to him, to her, to the two of them, that Clarke’s been trying to figure out on her own in his time away from the White House.

Bellamy turns around to stare at her, and she realizes, that she hasn’t quite figured out what it is just yet. Or maybe she does. She’s the President of the United States after all, she’s got a brain bigger than most people. Clarke knows exactly what this is. She knows exactly what Bellamy Blake means to her.

“I’m glad that you’re back,” Clarke says with a smile, an unexpected shakiness to her voice. “I don’t know what I was going to do without you.”

“Wells seemed to be a fine stand-in,” Bellamy teases, crossing his arms over his chest. “I hadn’t realized you missed me so much, Madam President.”

“Because I visited you practically every single day,” Clarke rolls her eyes as a wolfish grin spreads across Bellamy’s face. “But it wasn’t the same.”

“Hospital food doesn’t compare to the five course meals of the White House,” Bellamy sighs exaggeratedly. His eyes lock with Clarke’s, his grin diminishing into a reflective smile. “But I missed it here. I missed you.”

Clarke’s heartbeat quickens. “I missed you, too.”

Bellamy’s stare is enough to cause Clarke to crumble all over again, but she keeps a sturdy stance, feet on the ground, eyes level with his. It’s him that moves forward, opening his arms for an embrace. Clarke steps into it, all too eager to touch him, feel his warmth resonate throughout her body. She wraps her arms around him, as he does her, and holds him tightly, burying her head into the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bellamy whispers into her ear. “And neither are you.”

Clarke holds him tighter. She prays, to whoever is listening, to all the hard work she’s put in to attaining this life, to everything in her power, that this is true. That these next four years will roll through smoothly, that her final term as President can conclude peacefully. That she’ll have Bellamy long after all of this is done.

* * *

_The sound of a gunshot. Clarke thumping against the wooden floor of the stage. The screaming. Bellamy. Blood pouring out of his chest. Bellamy. They’re carrying her away from him Bellamy. Bellamy._

“Bellamy!”

Bellamy bursts into Clarke’s bedroom with the kick of his foot, gun gripped in his hands, eyes frantically scanning the room. It’s dark, too dark for anyone to see anything, the only sound being the quickening of Bellamy’s footsteps and the heaviness of Clarke’s breathing. He’s the one to flick on the light next to her nightstand, find Clarke heaving, trying to grasp her breath.

“Stand down,” Bellamy mutters into his earpiece. His stern demeanor instantly shifts, tucking his gun back into his waistband, and sitting down beside Clarke on her mattress. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Do you ever dream about it?” Clarke doesn’t mean for her voice to come out as a whisper, but that’s what happens. “About that night?”

Bellamy’s lips screw together tightly, contemplative. He’s choosing his words carefully, trying to comfort her. Clarke doesn’t need comfort. She just needs him.

“I won’t let that happen again,” Bellamy reassures her. “I promise you.”

“You can’t _promise that_ ,” Clarke shakes her head. “I wish I could go back.”

“There’s nothing you could have done differently.”

“The bullet was meant for _me_. You could have _died_.”

“If I had, it would be because of me and me only. It’s–”

“Your job. I _know_ , okay? It’s your _job_ to _die for me_.”

A silence looms over the dimly lit room, and while Clarke’s heaves have subsided to heavy breathing, she swears Bellamy’s able to hear the erratic thump of her heartbeat. From the dream, from having him so close on her bed, from the reality that the two of them can be taken away from each other with a single bullet, Clarke can’t pinpoint it.

“You have a family. A sister.” Clarke says softly. “I signed up for this. I worked hard for this life. Nobody should be dying for something I chose.”

“I chose this life, too, Clarke.” Bellamy scoots closer, placing his hand on top of hers. “And _you_ … You’re just as important to me. If anything happened to you, I don’t know if I could come back from it.” His eyes pour into hers. “I’d do it all over again. I’d jump in front of that bullet _all over again_ if it meant you’d be okay.”

Clarke’s lips part, but no words come out. She’s mesmerized by Bellamy, by everything that he is and encompasses. His warmth shines in his eyes and exudes through his skin, his love for others is shown in his actions, in his words, his need for protection – it’s one Clarke may have got wrong. It’s not a need for control, it’s a need for stillness, for life to be unmoved for everybody, even if it means sacrificing it for himself.

Her fingers curl around his hand, forming a tight grip on him. She’s always fearful that one day she’s going to wake up, and he’s going to be gone. And it’ll be nobody’s fault but her own. It’s his job to sacrifice his life for hers, and he’d do it in a heartbeat. The thing is, it’s not in her job description to do the same for him. But if she could, if she ever was faced with the opportunity, she wouldn’t even blink before it was done.

“I’d do it for you,” Clarke whispers. “If I could.”

A small, amused smile appears on his lips. “I would never let you.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t _let_ the President do anything.”

Bellamy laughs, and she finds comfort in the melody of his voice. Her heartbeat resumes to its normal pace as he tucks himself into her bed, and talks her down, until she drifts back to sleep with their fingers intertwined.

* * *

The cool wind of the night sky whisks through Clarke’s hair as she stands on the balcony, glaring out at the plain of grass. Bellamy stands a couple feet back, watching as her hair flows behind her in a mess of waves, untuned to the wind that courses through the air. She can feel her eyes on him, can always feel his presence nowadays. It’s a skill she’s learned in these past couple of years, one akin to him.

Clarke glances over her shoulder, catches him watching her. “You’re not going to join me?”

Bellamy’s signature smirk forms on his lips as he saunters over next to her. The wind catches his curls, and Clarke laughs as Bellamy scrunches up his face in dismay. He sticks his tongue out at her childishly, as Clarke leans back against the balcony with a satisfied expression resting over her features. Nothing is more comforting that having Bellamy near, like this, on their balcony and away from prying eyes.

The scar above his lip deepens when his tongue retreats back into his mouth. Clarke finds her gaze drifting from the scar to the pout of his lips, shiny and slick with his saliva. She’s more mesmerized from it than she should be, the glistening of his lips inviting her, if only she could do anything about it.

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice disrupts her.

“The scar,” Clarke recovers smoothly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I never asked you how you got it.”

Bellamy seems surprised, but amused by the question. His eyebrows quirk upwards. “I think I caught you staring at my lips, but I’m going to pretend I believe your excuse.”

Opening his mouth to start on his explanation, Clarke’s eyes bug wide. “You’re so full of it. I never asked about your scar, I want to know about your scar.”

“Oh, sure,” Bellamy smirks. “Madam President would never be caught dead staring at her security detail’s lips.”

“If I did, it surely wouldn’t be yours.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“You’ll survive.”

Bellamy chuckles lowly, shaking his head as he glances at her with a smile. “Don’t worry, I know you’re off limits.”

“Off limits?” Clarke raises her eyebrows. “Because I’m the President.”

“Well, obviously,” Bellamy shrugs. “And because you’re exclusive with Lexa.”

Clarke furrows her eyebrows, before realization dawns on her. “Bellamy, Lexa and I were done long ago.”

She doesn’t miss the relief that falls over his face, one that he fails to cover up well.

“You didn’t tell me that,” Bellamy says.

“I think we had more important matters to discuss.”

Bellamy considers this, then nods his head slowly, retaining the information, absorbing it. Clarke wonders what he’s thinking. If the relief that floods over his features is because he didn’t like Lexa or because he didn’t like Lexa with Clarke. She hopes she’s right about the first one.

“Can I ask why?” Bellamy inquires.

Clarke runs her tongue over her lower lip. “I think she realized something that I hadn’t yet.”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, and Clarke’s not sure if it’s because he doesn’t understand her statement or because he’s trying to figure out if the sound he’s hearing is the loud thumping in her chest. Clarke’s never been this nervous around a man or a woman she’s been interested in, never had trouble composing herself in front of anyone. And then, in came Bellamy, and every composure and poise she’s ever had slipped out the window.

Clarke can’t pinpoint the exact time she decides to crash her lips against Bellamy’s, but one second, she’s staring at him and another, her fists are collected in his shirt and her mouth collides against his. He returns the kiss eagerly, his tongue slipping past her lips to smoothen over hers. She moans into him, relief flooding through her, as his hands snake around her waist.

There’s a million reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this coursing through her mind. For one, they’re outside, and while this balcony is private and secluded, anyone could walk through the door and catch them. That would be bad, because every rule in the book says this is grounds for impeachment, locking lips with someone the President has authority over. Two, her and Bellamy are just friends. Granted, not right now, and not with the way her heart threatens to burst whenever she lays eyes on him.

“Bellamy,” she murmurs against his lips. “Do you… Do you want this?”

“God, Clarke,” Bellamy whispers. “All I’ve ever wanted is this.”

“You’re sure?” Clarke pesters. “Because–”

Bellamy deepens his mouth against hers, successfully silencing her. She moans into his mouth once more as his nails dig into her hips. Her hands come up to wrap around his neck, and never has this felt more perfect despite everything else imperfect that’s set up against them. He draws back, leaning his head against hers.

“I want you,” Bellamy assures her. “Not the President, not my boss. _You_ , Clarke. I want _you_.”

It’s all Clarke needs to hear, bringing him in for another kiss. For however long she’s wanted this, Clarke can’t believe she lasted nearly six years without feeling his mouth on hers. She relishes in his touch, in the taste of him, for as long as she can, until they have to compose themselves enough to look normal as they approach her bedroom.

Clarke throws him down on her bed, her ever-present need for him consuming her in new ways. Bellamy reaches for her greedily, but Clarke pins his wrists down, straddling him as she grinds down on his crotch, leaning forward to capture his mouth once more. She lets go of his wrists, allowing him to snake his hands into her hair, yank it back roughly as he trails kisses down her neck.

“Fuck,” Bellamy mutters. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

A gasp follows when Clarke grinds down on his hardened cock, threatening to burst the seam of his pants. Bellamy’s hand untangles from her hair, snaking down to her hips. He untucks her blouse, the palm of his hand finding her bare flesh, digging his nails into her. Clarke moans, cupping his cheeks with her hand and smacking her lips against his. 

She snakes down his body, knees digging into the carpet as his legs hang off of her bed. Clarke wastes no time in unbuckling his pants, pulling them down the ground along with his boxers. His hardened cock springs free, long and thick. Clarke’s hand curls around the base of him, marveling at his size, at his width, at everything that she’s holding in her hand.

Bellamy’s breath hitches. “Clarke, baby–” She squeezes her legs together. _Fuck_. “I want to get my mouth on you.”

“President’s first.” Clarke’s sultry voice causes his dick to twitch in her hand.

Her hand ropes up and down his shaft, testing the size of him in her palm. Clarke scoots closer, bringing her mouth down to the tip of him. He shudders beneath her as her tongue swirls around his tip, before she encloses her mouth around him, bobbing up and down on his cock. The guttural groan that escapes his lips would have been enough to spark the interest of her security detail, had Bellamy not been the only one on duty tonight.

His hand comes up to grip the back of her head, fisting in her hair, not forcing her down but guiding her along. Her movements dictate where his hand goes, as she brings her palm up to fondle his balls. Bellamy bucks his hips up involuntarily, the tip of his cock hitting the back of her throat. Clarke gladly takes all of him that he’ll give her.

Bellamy pulls her off of him, leaning down and smacking his lips against her. He guides her up by her hair, the two of them standing to their feet. Backing her up against the dresser, Clarke moans as she feels his cock rub against the center of her. Only then he drops his hand, bringing it up to her cheek to deepen their kiss before his hands find the buttons of her blouse, ripping open her shirt and revealing her less than sexy, white bra.

Clarke doesn’t have any time to embarrassed, as Bellamy digs his face into the valley of her breasts. She throws her head back in pleasure, hand wrapping around his neck for support, as he litters kisses around the exposed areas of her breasts.

“Bellamy,” Clarke breathes out. “I love when you kiss me.”

The praise is met with a quick kiss to Clarke’s lips, before Bellamy swiftly unhooks her bra. He peels her blouse and bra off, discarding it somewhere in the room before his hands come up to cup his breasts. His thumbs trace her erect nipples, his mouth still on hers, tongue smoothening against her own.

“I’m going to kiss you _everywhere_ ,” Bellamy promises. “I’m anywhere you want me to be, baby.”

Bellamy’s mouth drops from hers, down to her nipple. Clarke gasps as the warmth of his mouth consumes her nipple, her neglected breast fondled by his thick fingers. She arches her back to get more of him, but he’s already devouring every inch of her that he possibly can. The wetness between her thighs grows, an uncomfortable feeling settling in her pants.

It’s as if Bellamy can read her mind, his mouth leaving her breasts and smacking against hers, just as his hands find the buckle of her slacks. He pulls them down, managing to pull them down until they can fall naturally to her ankles. Clarke steps out of her pants, keeping her mouth on his, fully naked with the exception of her panties.

Bellamy takes care of that, too. He draws back, forehead resting against hers as he hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of her panties. His eyes pour into Clarke, asking for permission, and she nods eagerly. She steals another kiss from his lips, unable to get enough of him, before her panties join her pants on the floor.

He sinks to his knees, eyes never leaving hers. “God, baby. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this for you.” Bellamy presses his lip against the inside of her thigh. “Touch you. Kiss you. Taste you.”

“Oh, Bellamy,” Clarke whimpers. “I need you.”

A smirk graces his lips. “Glad you’ve finally realized.”

Bellamy licks a long stripe up the middle of her pussy. Clarke gasps, gripping the dresser for support as pleasure courses through her. His hands sprawl against her hips, keeping her in place as his tongue explores every avenue of her. It’s like he already knows every inch of her, even before any part of him touched her body. She shudders as his tongue begins flicking against her clit, rapid motions that leave her vision blurry.

It’s when his fingers sink into the center of her that Clarke loses it. His pace is steady, precise, everything she didn’t know that she needed. One hand on the dresser, the other wretched into his curls, Clarke keels over from the pleasure.

“Oh, God, Bellamy,” Clarke mewls. “Fuck, _fuck_ , right there.”

“Right there, huh?” Bellamy murmurs against her clit. His fingers glide in and out of her with a steady rhythm. “You like that, don’t you, baby?”

“Uh-huh,” is all Clarke can manage to say. That doesn’t seem to satisfy Bellamy, as the pace of his fingers rapidly increase. She starts babbling, “Yes, fuck, Bellamy, yes, I love when you do _that_.”

Clarke comes with a moan, her orgasm overpowering her body. Bellamy rides her through it, keeps his tongue on her in slower motions. She’s panting, her grip loosening on his curls. He raises to his feet, towering over her and kisses her sweetly. Clarke can barely respond to the kiss with how out breath she is, but she relishes in the taste of herself on his lips.

Bellamy scoops her into his arms, and she tangles her limbs with his rather easily. He guides her to the bed, gently laying her naked body on the mattress. He unbuttons his shirt, and Clarke marvels at the sight, still a little dazed by his touch, by the fact that she’s able to have him like this at all. Bellamy throws his shirt somewhere, Clarke’s not sure, because his lips are back on hers, slow and welcoming.

The head of his cock brushes against her clit, and she shivers beneath him. Bellamy pulls back, glancing down at the two of them, entangled together on this bed. Clarke sits up on her forearms, peering up at him in a mixture of lust and curiosity.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Clarke asks. The nickname has a similar effect on him, as his cheeks heat. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” Bellamy repeats, a tremor in his voice. “But I can’t do this if it’s only this. If this is just a moment, or a onetime thing. If we go back to friends in the morning.”

Clarke pecks his lips. “I don’t think we’ve ever been just friends. You’ve always been more.”

Bellamy’s eyes close slightly, half-lidded. “I want more with you.”

“Take it all, Bellamy. There is more with us.” 

Her lips are captured in his once more, as Bellamy lowers her back down to the bed. He hikes one of her legs over his hip, while his other hand positions his cock along her cunt, drawing back slightly, just to look at her. Their eyes lock, and as Bellamy sinks into her, Clarke feels a sense of completion, of _finally_.

Bellamy’s pace is steady, precise, hitting every spot that makes Clarke’s toes curl. His lips smash against hers greedily, relishing in the taste of one another. Clarke’s legs wrap around his torso, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, thumb gliding against her skin. There’s a unity, a peacefulness in being with him this way, in having him like she’s so desperately craved to all this time.

His free hand finds her clit, fingers circling rapidly as they both reach their peaks. Clarke whimpers when she comes, pulsating around his cock and sending him over the edge as well. He anchors himself inside her, and the warmth that floods her is different than before. But right, welcoming, and everything she needs from him.

They cuddle up in her bed, Clarke resting her head on Bellamy’s chest as he absentmindedly strokes her hair. Neither of them have spoken in an hour or so, simply soaking in one another’s presence, in the aftermath of everything that just happened.

“What is more with you?” Bellamy breaks the silence. Clarke peers up at him. “More, with the President of the United States. What does it look like?”

“Like this,” Clarke traces her fingers along his bare chest. “For now. My term is up in a couple of years, and then, it can just be you and me.”

“You and me,” a thoughtful smirk appears on Bellamy’s face. “It seems like that’s how it’s always been.”

Clarke grins, reaching up to steal another kiss from him. She’s not sure she’ll ever get used to his taste, to being able to just lean up and kiss him. When they’re away from the prying eyes of the White House, Clarke’s certain she’ll never be able to restrain herself.

* * *

_Term 2, Year 2:_

The second year of Clarke’s second term is probably the best one out of all six years of her Presidency. Since the incident, a newfound respect from the public for Clarke has formed. Dealt with grace and leadership, the country’s been in awe of Clarke’s presidential capabilities, playing close attention to her policies and actions and everything. It’s a recognition that Clarke knows she shouldn’t expect, but one she’s been craving.

Not to mention, the year having Bellamy as more than a friend is nothing short of spectacular. They were always together prior to them actually being together, so nobody suspects the amount of time they spend together. Nonetheless, they’re careful – nobody knows they’re together, aside from Wells, and the two intend to keep it that way until Clarke completes her presidency.

“You ever think about just saying fuck it?” Bellamy asks one day, leaning against the bars of the balcony. Clarke’s perched on her chair, entrapped in a painting. “Letting everyone know about us?”

Clarke laughs humorlessly, never taking her eyes off the canvas. “I would definitely be impeached.”

“But why? We’re the same age, it’s not like Monica Lewinsky–”

“There’s still a power imbalance, Bellamy.”

Bellamy knows that. Yet, it doesn’t stop him from sighing dramatically, striding around her chair to press a kiss against her cheek. Clarke giggles, leaning into his touch as he flowers her with short kisses along her neck. Bellamy rests his chin against her shoulder, staring at the canvas perched in Clarke’s lap.

“Where’s that?” Bellamy inquires.

The painting displays a city view of a small town. It’s a more rural area, set under an orange sunset, with a small, modern house smack down in the middle of it. The rest of the surrounding area is greenery, with a couple of buildings drawn in the distance.

“It’s a small town, Sanctum.” Clarke rests her cheek against his. “We stopped there on my campaign tour a couple of years ago. It’s quiet. A lot of retired people live there.”

“Already thinking of retirement?” Bellamy quips.

“It’s not so far away,” Clarke shrugs, swiveling her head around to look at him. “I’ve never felt more fulfilled than as President. My whole life has been gearing up for this one moment, and these past six years have been…difficult. But rewarding. I was meant for this job.”

Bellamy watches her intently, his eyes soaking her in and the words that she’s saying. Clarke catches herself staring at him for a little too long, thinking about everything she thought Presidency was going to be, how unexpected of an addition Bellamy was. A small smile rests on her features, as she leans out to stroke his cheek.

Sometimes, when Clarke is thrust into the middle of her professional duties, overwhelmed by everything that the presidency requires of her – she never feels more alive. It’s a thrill, a liveliness that Clarke’s sure she’ll never be able to catch outside of this profession. It’s draining, and demanding and everything in between, but never has she felt a stronger sense of belonging in her career than in the White House.

And then, when she’s drained and demanded from and everything in between at the end of the day, she looks to Bellamy. This job will come to an end, but he’ll be there.

“I love this job, but it can’t last forever.” Clarke’s thumb glides against his skin. “I’ll eventually return to the Senate, but I think I want to take a couple of years off first.”

Bellamy smiles fondly. “Sanctum is very close to Arkadia, you know.”

“Oh, is it?” Clarke exaggerates.

He pauses, his eyes softening. “Sanctum would be nice.”

“It would be nice with you.”

A blush creeps onto Clarke’s cheeks as a wolfish grin spreads across Bellamy’s lips. He leans in to kiss her, the two of them never getting enough of one another, despite all the time they spent together. He hooks his arms under her legs, carrying her bridal style as he plops down in her seat, Clarke perched in his lap with the canvas miraculously still in her grasp. Before Clarke can utter her complaints, Bellamy presses a kiss to her cheek, a reassurance that diminishes her argument.

“You could have ruined my painting,” Clarke feigns a pout.

“Never,” Bellamy pecks her nose. “Even if I did, we could just recreate it in person in a couple of years.”

Clarke smiles, resting her cheek against his shoulder as Bellamy cuddles her close. Despite the cool air outside, a warm fills her, and adoration consuming her. She peers up at him, feeling unable to – knowing it’s no longer necessary to – restrain her feelings for him any longer. This is her person, for now and forever.

“I love you,” Clarke says.

Bellamy’s eyes widen slightly, and Clarke can feel his heartbeat quicken. “I love you too, Madam President.”

Before Clarke can swat at his chest, Bellamy catches her wrist, chuckling as he presses a kiss to her palm. He rests his forehead against her, staring at her with such adoration that Clarke feels to the urge to burst into _I love you’s_ all over again.

“I love you, Clarke.” Bellamy whispers, only for her ears to hear. His lips brush against hers. “I love you.”

Sitting under the balcony of the night sky, Clarke brings Bellamy in for another kiss, her heart soaring with _I love you’s_ and promises of the future.

* * *

“Madam President Griffin,” Vice President Wallace calls out to her.

Clarke resists the urge to groan out loud. She rolls her eyes, before pasting on her plastic smile and bright demeanor. She swivels around on her heel, watching as Vice President Wallace strides down the hall, over to her. His posture is still, sauntering up to her almost robotically, but his eyes glaze over her as they always have, bemused and taunting.

“Vice President Wallace,” Clarke greets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Cage smiles patronizingly at her. “You’re a difficult woman to find. Your assistant said I would have to schedule a meeting with you to chat in person.”

“That’s the life of the President, I suppose.” Clarke shrugs.

His eyes squint, trying to evaluate her, pick her apart, shake her for weaknesses. Little does he know, Clarke doesn’t have any weaknesses. She achieved becoming the President of the United States by jumping through obstacles and emerging without a scratch on her. She’s dealt with men like Cage Wallace her whole life – this is no different, and none the more intimidating.

“I suppose,” Vice President Wallace echoes. He glances past her. “No bodyguard today, Madam President?”

“Mr. Blake is waiting for me in the conference room,” Clarke explains easily, though irritation pickles along her chest. “I have a couple of meetings scheduled for the day.”

“Meetings which don’t involve me?” Vice President Wallace quips an eyebrow. “You don’t find that a little exclusive?”

“You have your duties, as I have mine. You’ll most likely be briefed by an associate.”

“I hardly think that’s fair. Might I remind you, after that assassination attempt, I ran the Oval Office–”

“I remember.” Clarke snaps. Vice President Wallace’s mouth screws up tightly, before shifting into a mocking stare. He intentionally struck a nerve. Clarke straightens, composing herself. “And I very much appreciate it. However, things have long gone back to normal since then.”

Vice President Wallace surveys over her, not entirely convinced, and itching to push more buttons. Clarke doesn’t give him time to recuperate, nodding her head in acknowledgement to him before swiveling around on her heel. She fails to hear his footsteps as she strides away from him, turning the corner without glancing back at the Vice President.

Bellamy, as she assumed, is waiting for her inside the conference room. Her meetings don’t start for another hour, as they so eloquently planned for it to be. His smile interrupts any of her irritations caused by Cage. Clarke closes the conference room door, beaming as Bellamy wastes no time in striding over to her, snaking his arms around her waist and pulling her close to kiss her sweetly.

“You’re tense,” Bellamy murmurs. “Nervous about your meetings?”

“I just ran into Cage,” Clarke mumbles.

He draws back, scrunching up his nose. “That’s a mood killer. What did he want?”

“What he always wants,” Clarke sighs deeply, “to undermine me.”

“You’ve only got to deal with him for two more years.”

“Counting down the days.”

Leaning up on the tips of her toes, Clarke captures Bellamy’s lips in hers. He’s a comfort that soothes her like no other, a warmth that settles her, grounds her. She backs him up against the conference table, his back jutting against the wood. He grins wolfishly into their kiss, pulling back to marvel at her, hand gliding down her cheek. She gazes up at him, blue eyes twinkling similar to his.

“Two more years, and we’ll be in Sanctum.” Bellamy’s thumb glides smoothly against her skin. “Just you and me.”

“You and me,” Clarke affirms. “Think we’ll be bored?”

“Most definitely.” Bellamy smirks. “But we’ve got a way of keeping things interesting.”

Before a clever quip can escape Clarke’s mouth, Bellamy’s hands sprawl against the back of her thighs, lifting her into the air. Clarke yelps, legs involuntarily wrapping around his waist, as he swivels her around and plops her down on the conference table. He steals a long, drawn out kiss from her, sloppy and passionate, as his hand snakes up her thighs, gripping her flesh in his palm.

“I like this skirt,” Bellamy rasps. He draws back, resting his forehead against hers, and his eyes flash dark. “Pull it higher.”

Clarke does, shimmying her skirt up her thighs, eyes never once drifting from hers. Bellamy lowers himself to the ground, knees planted on the floor, their eyes locked. He hooks his hand under the waistband of her panties, dragging them down her thighs as he positions himself in between her legs. Pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs, Bellamy etches his way up her skin, and Clarke watches, mesmerized, heart bursting.

Bellamy meets her center, and Clarke throws her head back in a gasp. He grabs a hold of her hips, keeping her in place and nuzzling his way closer to her heat. He lavishes her cunt, lapping his tongue greedily up and down her. Clarke holds onto the conference table for support, which Bellamy takes full advantage of as his pace quickens.

His tongue finds her clit, and he begins flicking it back and forth in rapid motions. As with everything physical, Bellamy is skilled, precise, _passionate_. He has a way of making Clarke see stars, when they’re in the middle of their lust or simply when he’s gazing at her. This time is no different, her knuckles whitening because of her tight grip on the conference table, unexplainable bursts of pleasure coursing through her.

“Bellamy,” Clarke breathes out, her free hand knotting in the curls of his hair. “Baby, _oh_ –”

“Sh, baby,” Bellamy coaxes her. “Don’t want anybody to hear us, right?”

Clarke nods hurriedly, gulping down her words. Bellamy hums in praise, his tongue resuming its agonizing pace. She gasps out quietly, giving Bellamy the vigor he needs to send her over the edge. She comes with a suppressed groan, as Bellamy’s tongue laps gently along her cunt to ride her through her orgasm.

Bellamy raises to his feet, pulling her panties up and tucking her skirt down. Clarke’s barely recovered, allowing him to put her back together while she catches her breath. She can see him smirking through her half-lidded eyes, barely has time to think of a snarky remark before his lips are against hers, kissing her sweetly in admiration.

“My meeting is in thirty minutes,” Clarke reminds him with a breath.

“And you’re going to do great,” Bellamy quips. He tilts his head to the side, kissing along her neck. “I just made sure you were relaxed.”

Clarke wraps her arms around Bellamy as he curls into her embrace. His face nuzzles into her neck, soft, reassuring kisses patterning her skin. Clarke grins tiredly, resting her cheek on his shoulder. They have thirty minutes to bask in this, in the two of them, until they’re shoved back into their professional statures for the rest of the day.

“I wonder, sometimes,” Clarke thinks aloud. “How I get to have you and the presidency?”

Bellamy draws back, chuckling softly. “You don’t. I’m a secret.”

“Not to me,” Clarke narrows her eyes. Bellamy knows what she means, and smiles sympathetically. She sighs, “One day, one day _soon_ , it won’t be like this. It’ll be easier.”

“Nothing is ever easy for you,” Bellamy teases.

“This will be. Loving you comes so naturally, so _inevitably_.”

Bellamy’s eyes soften, gazing at her with an affectionate smile. “You know, that night of the assassination attempt–”

Clarke closes her eyes. “Stop.”

“No, listen,” Bellamy pleads. Clarke sighs, begrudgingly opening her eyes to stare at him. “I saw that guy in the stands. I saw him and I knew. I knew it was going to be me or you.”

Her lip starts to quiver, but Clarke bites down on it. She’s cried enough over that day, sobbed for hours on end about how if it weren’t for her, Bellamy wouldn’t have been bleeding out on that stage. She wants to pretend it never existed, even if it send the events in motion for the two of them to be together. For her to realize Bellamy was the only one she ever wanted.

“And I wanted it to be me,” Bellamy whispers. “If the bullet had to hit someone, it would be me. I couldn’t imagine losing you, not when I’ve spent these past few years falling in love with you.”

Clarke curls her fingers around his collar. “You’re not losing me. Ever.”

It’s a promise she intends to keep as his lips meet hers once more.

* * *

The promise crumbles into ash when Cage makes an appointment with her.

Clarke doesn’t think much of it at first. She’s actually pleased he’s following protocol, partly because he’s listening to her and because she’s put him in his place. It’s something about ironing out the upcoming year, and she assumes it’s about the candidates they intend to endorse for the upcoming election. She doesn’t even look up when he enters the Oval Office, busying herself in files.

“Vice President Wallace,” Clarke greets passively, glancing through files. “What is it you wished to speak with me about?”

Cage smacks down an array of photos that cover her files, obscuring her sight. Clarke furrows her eyebrows, peering up at him with a displeased expression. Her Vice President only stares down at her with a menacing smile, motioning towards the photos that Clarke hasn’t fully registered just yet. Her gaze drifts back down to them, picking the first one atop of the pile up nd staring back at her own face.

Her face, eyes closed, mouth open in a gasp – the conference room, just a couple of weeks before. The panic that rises in Clarke’s chest only magnifies as she takes in the rest of the picture. It’s her, propped up on the conference table, and Bellamy between her legs.

Clarke drops the picture onto the table, scrambling through the others. They’re all of her and Bellamy in that conference room. Their arms wrapped around each other, his head in between her legs, their lips interlocked. She suddenly can’t catch her breath, staring in horror as her career, and her security crumbles before her very eyes.

“Mr. Blake must have taken the day off. You have another of your security detail outside,” Cage comments condescendingly. “Sad. I would have loved to had a word with him.”

“Stay away from him, Cage.” Clarke growls, standing to her feet.

Cage chuckles darkly. “So now we’re on a first name basis. How sweet.”

Her façade – Clarke remembers. It’ll do no good if Cage knows just how rapidly she’s falling apart on the inside. She straightens, expression regaining some semblance of composure as she stares back at Cage, a vengeance in her eye.

“What do you want?” Clarke demands. Cage is quiet for a moment, a sinister smirk appearing. “There’s got to be something. Something you want to keep this quiet.”

“Oh, I don’t intend to keep this quiet,” Cage steps forward. He gently picks up one of the photos, the one with Bellamy’s head shoved in between her thighs, and marvels at it creepily. “I intend to send this to every media outlet that’ll have it.”

Clarke’s fists ball at her side, but she knows what to do. Let him speak, let him have his Big Boy moment. He’s clearly been prepping for it, for a number of weeks at least, and he wants the satisfaction in seeing her squirm. She won’t squirm, or wiggle or do any of the sort, but she’ll let him have his spiel. He may say he wants nothing, but that’s not true. They all want something.

“You’ll be impeached,” Cage continues, as if she didn’t already know. “You’ll be the first female Bill Clinton. How’s that going to feel?”

She doesn’t say anything.

Cage grins wickedly. “Not so great, I imagine.” Here it comes. “Unless…” He places the picture back down on the desk, sliding it towards her. “Unless I make this go away.”

“Why would you do that?” Clarke plays along.

“Because there’s something you can do for me,” Cage leans forward, hovering over her desk, the only physical item separating them. “Get rid of Bellamy, and these pictures go with him.”

Surprised, Clarke takes a step backward. It’s hardly a request she expected – Bellamy is simply collateral in the bigger scheme of everything, which is her. Cage’s problem, to her knowledge, has never been with Bellamy. It’s always been with Clarke, with her authority, with her reign over him.

“Why Bellamy?” Clarke inquires. “Why fire him? What does that do for you?”

“You’re in no position to be asking questions,” Cage snarls. “You’ll find someone else for your personal security detail. Set him free.”

“This isn’t about setting him free,” Clarke scowls. “What do you really want?”

“I thought I was pretty direct, _Clarke_. Get rid of Bellamy.”

An uneasy feeling settles deep in Clarke’s chest, but it doesn’t override the anger and frustration that festers. She stares at Cage, trying to piece it all together, and she can’t. There’s something else, something that this action will be putting in motion for him, and yet she, for the life of her, is unable to decode it. Clarke spent majority of her life dissecting men like Cage, and this time, she’s not able to complete this puzzle.

Clarke stares back down at the array of pictures on her desk. These photographs could destroy her career, it would definitely be grounds for impeachment considering their positions of authority. Two years away from the finish line, and everything would be discarded. She would no longer go down as the first female and youngest President, but as the whore who screwed her personal security detail. It would destroy everything.

But firing Bellamy would ruin everything else. He’s her security, in more ways than one, and she has promises of forever with him. These past six years she spent bettering this country may go unnoticed by those a part of it, but Clarke will always know the good that she did. She never needed the recognition. She needs Bellamy.

“No,” Clarke snaps. “No, I won’t fire him.”

Cage snarls, “You think I’m bluffing. I have copies–”

“I don’t think you’re bluffing.” Clarke reassures him, sliding the photograph over to him. “I just don’t care. Take away my Presidency, my legacy will remain. I won’t let you take Bellamy.”

“ _Your legacy_ ,” Cage sneers. His fists bang on her desk. “Your legacy would be nothing without me. You wouldn’t have even stepped foot into this office if it weren’t for me!”

“Well, here I am, anyways. You’ll never be able to take that away from me.”

Cage’s face turns a deep shade of red, his sinister appearance morphing into that of a child throwing a temper tantrum. All the while, Clarke remains sturdy and poised, staring at him unmoved, unaffected.

The longer she stares, Cage’s temper subsides, and he seems to regain some composure. She watches, appearing almost interested just to irritate him further. He straightens his posture, clears his throat, seems to find some grounding. She tilts her head to the side, mockingly, resisting the urge to smirk.

Cage steadies his stare on her. “Either you get rid of Bellamy, or I do.”

Clarke tries not to waver. “I hope you’re not making threats in front of the President, Vice President Wallace.”

“No threats. Just promises.”

“You wouldn’t touch him. You _couldn’t_. Bellamy’s trained–”

“There are others just as, _more_ , trained _._ ” A wicked smirk re-appears on Cage’s face. “I have contacts. He’d barely be able to blink before it was done. I doubt he could survive a second bullet.”

As the words sink into Clarke, rattling her bones and coiling up every part of her insides, Cage takes a step back, triumphant. He stares her down, making her appear like a weak, little girl, not somebody capable of being the President of the United States. Clarke wishes she could say he was bluffing, but no part of her thinks that he is.

“This isn’t about Bellamy,” she tries. “This is about me–”

“Of _course_ it’s about _you_ ,” Cage scowls. “You’re so high and mighty, aren’t you? Always follows the rules, does what’s best for the country, all while screwing someone inferior to you.”

“He is not _inferior_ –”

“You can’t have it all. You can’t be the President and have your boytoy. It’s not fair.”

Clarke feels tears pooling in her eyes. Maybe she had thought that this life she was culminating was a little too perfect, maybe she thought she could have it all. The presidency and Bellamy, wrapped into a neat bow. The way Cage looks at her, with a prodding vengeance, it seems as if that’s exactly the case. But she won’t cry in front of Cage. She refuses to. He seems to notice her teary expression anyways, a satisfied expression resonating over his features. He thinks he won. Clarke thinks he has, too.

“I want him gone by the end of next week, Clarke,” Cage warns. Clarke screws her lips together tightly, staring him down, despite everything in her wanting to run. She stands her ground. “Or I’ll take care of Mr. Blake myself.”

* * *

Having her assistant assign other members of her personnel security detail to her is a bigger red flag than Clarke originally thought. Bellamy tries to get to her in other ways; calling, texting, lingering in the halls. She always brushes him off, stating she’s busy. Really, she’s just using up her deadline to the fullest extent. Every time she looks at Bellamy, she remembers what she has to do, and her heart aches.

Better her heart ache this way than have him gone. Gone from the White House is better than gone from this world. The thought nearly transports her back to that hospital room, lying by his side and holding onto him for dear life. While this feels a lot like that, the process is gradual – like he’s willingly slipping through her fingers, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it without him flatlining.

Clarke’s time runs out, though. Cage is breathing down her neck, and Bellamy knows something is wrong.

Bellamy walks into her bedroom, tentatively, as if he’s avoiding stepping on glass. He shuts the door behind him quietly, as Clarke sits on her bed before him. She has trouble looking at him. She doesn’t want to feel his warmth. She needs to feel the ice, needs it to freeze in her veins and mold her heart into something she needs to be careful with. Not break, not keep beating, but frozen in its entity. It’s the only way she can do this.

“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?” Bellamy’s voice is sharp, no longer walking on glass. “You can avoid your personnel all you want, but you can’t avoid me.”

Clarke takes a shaky breath, and looks up at him. The façade is painted all over her features, and she’s afraid Bellamy can see right through it. “This has to stop, Bellamy.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows furrow as he steps closer. “Stop what?”

“This. Us. Whatever this is.”

He’s not buying her nonchalant act. Bellamy surges forward, nearly kneeling down to her eyelevel, before Clarke shoots to her feet. Her face is stoic, staring at him intently, fighting back the urge to tell him everything. But he can’t protect her from this. This is something she has to handle herself – this is how she protects him.

Bellamy huffs out a laugh humorlessly. “I don’t understand. What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and I, Bellamy.” Clarke sighs deeply. “I don’t think this is right. For either of us.”

He stares at her, incredulously, squinting and trying to make sense of it all. She knows how smart he is, knows how well that he knows her. Clarke tries to remain unmoving, her features secured in the story that she’s supposed to be telling.

“Clarke,” Bellamy huffs out a humorless laugh. “Where is this coming from?”

“I need to get through the rest of this presidency,” Clarke says carefully. “Now is not the right time to be pursuing things with you.”

“We were talking about Sanctum just a couple weeks ago,” Bellamy points out, shaking his head. He dares to take a step closer. “Something’s going on here–”

Clarke pushes past him, retreating from him backing her against the bed. Bellamy turns as she positions herself on the opposite side of the room, a notable distance between the two. His confusion resonates over his features, riddling his forehead and furrowing his brow. He surveys over her, trying to make sense of it all, of everything that’s changed.

“I made a mistake. Rushing into things with you,” Clarke reiterates. “I abused my position of power–”

Bellamy attempts to move towards her again. “Clarke, you never–”

Clarke holds her hand out, halting him. “Stop.” Bellamy stills, his confusion morphing into a sadness that strikes her deeply. “Stop. I don’t want this.”

“You don’t want _what_?” Bellamy’s irritation festers. “God, Clarke, what the hell is going on? You avoid me all week, and then tell me you want to stop seeing each other? This isn’t you–”

“No, Bellamy, you don’t understand.” Clarke straightens. “This is me. This is _my_ presidency. And any longer I spend with you, I risk jeopardizing it. I risk losing what I spent my whole life working for.”

Bellamy surges forward, backing Clarke against the wall before she can stop him. He stares at her, really tries to pry, but she avoids direct eye contact. That’s where he’ll get her.

“This isn’t you,” Bellamy’s voice is so soft, Clarke wants to crumble into his arms. He reaches out to her, his hand ghosting her cheek. “You can have us both. We just have to keep this a secret for a little while longer–”

“It’s not worth it.” Clarke snaps, swatting his hand away. “I can’t do all this just for you.”

The hurt that flashes in Bellamy’s eyes steals the warmth from him. It’s almost as if it’s dissipated from his system, oozing out of him slowly, the light fading from his eyes and fading from his body. In front of her, Bellamy stills, becoming a statue of the man she loves. Someone who looks like him, but is completely unmoving, unaffected. Clarke’s heart shatters then, if it hadn’t already before.

“Just for me,” Bellamy echoes. He nods slowly, absorbing her words. “Fine. I understand.”

There’s more he wants to say. The greedy part of Clarke wants him to say it, say every nasty thing he’s thinking. Maybe it would soften the blow. But that wouldn’t be what happened. He’s hurt, and he loves her, and fuck all she wants is him here with her. And Clarke can’t have that. She has to choose what’s best for him, what outcome is going to have him be okay. Even if she won’t be.

Bellamy scrubs his hand over his face, tearing his gaze from her. Clarke yearns to reach out, comfort him, tell him that she has to do this, she doesn’t want to. But she stills, that façade of hers ever still present. Perfectly intact, careful not to disrupt this. Everything will be worse if that’s the case.

He strides over to the door. Clarke doesn’t turn to watch him go, but she hears the door creak open.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Bellamy calls out to her.

_Fuck_. Clarke spins around, eyes widened and stature breaking. “No. Bellamy, I meant–”

Bellamy narrows his eyes, shutting the door behind him. He steps towards Clarke, challengingly. “You are _not_ firing me, Clarke. You may have changed your mind about how you feel about me, but nothing about how I feel has changed.”

Panic rises in Clarke, so uncharacteristic and unnatural, she’s not sure how to cope. “Bellamy, you don’t understand. I – I don’t want to see you–”

“I don’t care,” Bellamy spits. “I have a job to do. It’s to protect you.”

“I can pay you for the rest of this term–”

Bellamy draws forward, towering over her. Clarke makes the mistake of locking her eyes with his, an instinct of hers. The warmth in him has returned, albeit battered by her own doing, but it still manages to seep into her, and ground her to him. He towers over her, the hurt desolate in his eyes, a shakiness to his voice.

“It’s never been about the money. Or even about this damn job.” Bellamy breathes. “It’s been about _you_. About keeping you safe. Because I love you, Clarke. It’s you and me, even if you don’t want it to be.”

He gives her one, last look that cements Clarke in place. The only part of her that can move is her mind, whirling around with thoughts, all consumed by Bellamy. He’s the one that tears his gaze from her first, turning around and heading towards the door. And she almost shouts that he’s fired. Doesn’t give him a choice to rebuttal her.

_You and me_.

Clarke finds her voice. She’s not going to be silenced by Cage, or this overflow of love that makes her make poor decisions. She loves Bellamy, and her inclination to protect him comes purely from that, as his does her. But Clarke is a logical thinker, first and foremost. She’s the President of the United States, and no man can take that away from her.

“Wait,” Clarke calls out to him. Bellamy sighs deeply, but he glances over his shoulder to acknowledge her. She takes a step towards him. “There's something you should know.”

* * *

_Term 2, Year 3:_

“Clarke, do you have a briefing with the Governor of Georgia on Monday?” Cage asks, surveying over a stack of files that mean little to nothing to him.

Clarke presses her lips tightly together, refraining from spewing a snarky remark. He lifts his head to look at her, raising an eyebrow challengingly. She narrows her eyes, sitting across from him in this conference room with a plethora of their associates watching her every move. She straightens her posture, relaxing her features, flashing a polite smile.

“I do,” Clarke affirms. “I leave at six am.”

“I think I’ll join you,” Cage decides.

Tilting her head to the side, Clarke tries to keep the smile on her face. “Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. We’re only discussing the endorsement of the upcoming candidates for the Democratic party.”

“Governor Tsing, I believe, is the one you’re speaking with.” Cage explains, as if Clarke didn’t already know. “She may be a candidate herself. I would like to have a chat with her, too.”

“A chat with her?” Clarke questions with the quip of her eyebrow. “What for?”

“As co-partners, I believe it’s best we both speak with her.”

“Perhaps after she’s announced her candidacy–”

“Or on Monday.”

Cage gives her a warning look, his sinister smile making Clarke’s skin crawl. He still has the pictures, always taunting her to bend to his will, even though Clarke did exactly as he asked of her.

Bellamy hasn’t worked at the White House in months. Sometimes, Clarke will call the person at her side by his name when it’s quiet, thinking he’ll respond. It’s often another member of her security detail who becomes rightfully confused, and while she apologizes that it’s a simple mistake, it doesn’t cure the yearning she has for him. Clarke misses him more than anything. But this is what’s best for the both of them.

Cage is overly confident with Bellamy out of the picture. He’s become a lot more comfortable with taunting Clarke, even around their counterparts. Clarke lets it slide, always afraid that he’s going to pull out a wildcard and end her career right on the spot. She stays quiet, complacent, nothing like the person she grew up to be. This Clarke is a stranger, to everyone and everything, including herself.

For now, Cage has the upper hand. Or at least, he thinks he does.

Clarke regains her composure. “Very well. I will see you on Monday morning.” She closes her folder, and stands to her feet, tucking the document under her arm. “Have a good day, everyone.”

She doesn’t wait to see the look of triumph appear on Cage’s face. There’s a sinking feeling embedded in her chest and she fears that her wave of nausea will overcome her if she takes one more glance at his face. She bids the rest of the room farewell, before swiveling around on her heel and striding out of the room with her head held high.

One of the members of her security detail follow her, but Clarke says nothing to him. She keeps her gaze trained before her, and her steps careful, heading straight to her bedroom. It’s her only sanctuary, the only place that Cage cannot touch and that her personal security detail – since none of them have the name Bellamy Blake anymore – can enter.

Entering her room, Clarke closes the door and locks it behind her. She instantly pulls out her phone, her fingers punching at the keyboard. Distancing herself from the door, Clarke impatiently listens to the dial tone, before she hears them pick up on the other line.

“Hey,” Clarke whispers. “I think it’s time. He’s planning something, something in Georgia.”

A beat, and then, “Georgia? With Governor Tsing?”

“That’s her. He insisted on meeting with her before she announced her candidacy.” A contemplative silence looms over the line. “Why? Does that mean something?”

Bellamy’s warm chuckle resonates through the phone, sinking into her chest. “Madam President, I think we got him.”

Clarke lets out a breath of relief, bursting into the first genuine grin she’s had in weeks. Speaking to Bellamy in secret over a burner phone is nothing like having him in person, but this is just their medium for now. Soon, they’ll be together again, and all of this would have paid off.

* * *

The vast clouds of the sky block Clarke’s view of the ground below, but she keeps her gaze trained on the white and blues, heart beating a mile a minute. A few members of her security detail are a couple of rows behind her, Cage just across the way, and Georgia below, anticipating their arrival. It’s only a couple more minutes until they land. She just has to wait a couple of more minutes.

Clarke hears shuffling from beside her, but refuses to tear her gaze from the window. She knows who it is, and what they want, and the last thing she wants to do it entertain them. There’s only a couple of more minutes until they land, just a couple more minutes–

“Clarke,” Cage’s sinister tone seeps into her ear. Clarke cringes, but doesn’t acknowledge him. “I think we’re going to like Governor Tsing. She’s a promising candidate.”

She waits a beat, deciding whether or not this is the best course of action. Clarke glances over to Cage as he settles into the chair beside her, staring smugly. Her insides churn, fury building up inside of her chest.

“For President?” Clarke tilts her head to the side mocking. “I don’t know. She doesn’t seem headstrong enough for the presidency.”

“Is that so?” Cage hums thoughtfully. He leans back into his chair, pretending to comprehend Clarke’s insight. “I think she’d be a value addition to the White House. In one way or another.”

“Or another,” Clarke draws out, keeping her eyes trained on him. “Like maybe as Vice President instead.”

Cage peers at her curiously. “Vice President is always an option. Who do you think would be a good candidate for her to work with?”

“Well, aren’t you considering running for the presidency? Wouldn’t you like to recruit her as your Vice President?”

Vice President Wallace’s eyes widen slightly. A smirk appears on Clarke’s face, having wiped that smug expression right off of him. He settles back into his chair, his nerves spiking on his skin. That’s the thing about men like Cage – they think they’re so careful, so precise, so cunning and all it takes a bit of digging to find out their true intentions. Whether that’s just by staring at them for too long, or through physical research.

Clarke watches him carefully, knowing he’s conjuring up something casual to reply to her. She notices the realization dawn over his face, as an unsettled chuckle escapes his lips. Cage swivels his head around to peer at her curiously, trying to figure her out. He never will, always has to go below the belt to try to devalue her and all her hard work. It won’t be enough this time.

“I don’t remember mentioning that to you,” Cage says.

“You didn’t have to. It’s obvious how badly you want it,” Clarke shrugs nonchalantly. Her relaxed demeanor morphs as her gaze lands on him, stern and focused. “I should have figured it out sooner. During the assassination attempt.”

The plane lands with a screeching halt, just as Cage’s face goes white. Clarke stands from her seat, glowering down at Cage. She has the urge to mutter something crueler, but her last few words are all the more impactful. Pasting on her fakest smile, Clarke’s eyes flash darkly at Cage, leaving him stunned in his chair as she saunters towards the door of the plane.

Clarke doesn’t see anybody as she descends the ladder, her security detail effectively padding her. She doesn’t see anyone else, but she knows they’re there, waiting for their opportune time to emerge. The sunlight beams down, far too early in the morning for all this madness to commence, but it hits Clarke’s skin, and it almost feels like a new beginning. Her feet land on the ground and she turns to see Cage is not too far behind, with his own security detail – not that it’ll help him now.

He emerges from behind his security detail, hesitantly striding over to Clarke. She bypasses her own security detail, asserting her dominance over her Vice President. Staring him down with a confident smirk, meanwhile Cage struggles to meet her eye.

Cage nervously wipes his hands against the slack of his pants. “Where is Governor Tsing? She was supposed to meet us on the ground.”

On cue, the blare of police sirens erupt in the air. Cage flinches as the police cars surround the landing strip, federal agents emerging from their cars with their guns pointed out. He nearly ducks behind Clarke, if she hadn’t stepped to the side. If the spotlight is what Cage wants, then it’s exactly what she’ll give him for these last few moments.

Clarke scans the crowd, looking for one vehicle in particular. As Cage melts down beside her, one of the vehicles pull up directly in front of them. It screeches to a halt, before Wells hops out of the passenger side and Bellamy jumps out of the driver’s side. His eyes lock with Clarke, and any worries she may have thought she had, melt with his warmth.

“What is this?” Cage demands. “What’s going on?”

“Vice President Cage Wallace, hands up!” Bellamy bellows. Cage, struck by his tone, nervously raises his hands in the air. “You’re under arrest for the attempted assassination of the President of the United States.”

“W – What?” Cage stammers, chuckling nervously as sweat beats down his temple. “You must be mistaken. That was Dax Donovan.”

“A friend of yours?” Wells inquires, grip tightening on his gun.

Cage swallows thickly, his gaze flickering nervously around the swarm of agents pointing their guns at him. Even his own security detail, who had been informed on the matter prior to the flight, are directing their weapons towards him. He’s desolate, leaving Clarke standing before him, a victorious smirk sprawled across her features.

“Dax Donovan, you must remember him.” Bellamy taunts. “You used a pseudonym to pay him. He served with you in the military, albeit at different stations.” Cage says nothing, urging Bellamy to continue. “He was let go, for attempting to murder a fellow solider. Lost everything. Until you offered him the deal of a lifetime.”

The adrenaline pumping through Cage’s veins must take over, because in a flash he goes from a nervous wreck to hooking his arm around Clarke, pulling her close. An audible gasp echoes throughout the landing stripe as Cage retrieves a gun from his back pocket and presses it against Clarke’s temple.

His grip around her neck is firm and tight, cutting off her air circulation. Clarke remains still, putting her arms up to obey Cage, just this once. Cage chuckles devilishly, digging the bud of the gun into her temple. Clarke’s heart may just burst out of her chest, especially when her gaze lands on Bellamy, his mixture of fury and yearning for her apparent on the way his chest rises and falls erratically.

Clarke tries to tell him with her eyes that she’s okay. But he’s always been the one with the warmth, with the security. All she can do to calm him is be herself – stay still, think logically, and predict how this is going to end.

“If anyone shoots, the President dies,” Cage shouts. “Lower your weapons.”

“Everyone, stand their ground!” Bellamy yells.

“Lower your guns,” Clarke exclaims calmly.

“No, Clarke–”

“As your _President_ , I am ordering everyone to lower their guns.”

Everyone does as their told. Federal agents, even the security detail, lower their weapons to the ground. Cage is heavily outnumbered, but his threat is larger than all of their skillsets combined. One push of his finger, and the trigger is activated, and Clarke’s brains are scattered all over this landing strip, in front of her colleagues, in front of her friend, in front of _Bellamy_. They have to be accommodating. She knows how to handle these types of people, these types of _men_.

Bellamy is the last one to lower his gun. Wells does first, giving Bellamy a warning look to do the same. He doesn’t seem to take his advice, his eyes fleeing back to Clarke, pleading with her. She stares at him, eyes pouring into his, and begs him. This is something she has to do on her own. It’s her turn.

With shaky hands, Bellamy places his gun on the ground. Cage becomes more comfortable, loosening his grip around Clarke’s neck the slightest bit.

“Want to know how we figured it out?” Clarke taunts with a breathy voice. Cage only tightens his grip on the gun. “Besides your connection to Dax Donovan and your obsessive need for power.” Clarke has the courage to laugh. “It was when you tried to get rid of Bellamy. You wanted him gone to get to me.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t fucking your security detail, it would have been easier for me.” Cage growls into her ear.

“Maybe,” Clarke teases. “You wanted him gone because you needed to take me by surprise. And you never would with Bellamy. He would take the bullet for me again, and again.” Her eyes meet Bellamy’s for just a moment, her heart resuming its steady beat. “With him gone, you had easy access to try again and assassinate me. This time, in Georgia.”

Cage says nothing to this, but she can feel his chest heaving up and down. Clarke’s decoded nearly every part of his thought process, something he thought was so unique and undiscoverable. She almost laughs at the stupidity, and the lack of a proper thought process, but she reigns it in.

“You were going to have me endorse you for President. Here, you were going to announce that you and Governor Tsing would be running together, with her as your Vice President.” Clarke says carefully. “Then have me killed. You’d probably be close by, you’d try to look like a hero who tried to save me. You’d gain all the sympathy votes, and with my endorsement, you’d be a shoe-in. Not to mention, you’d look good enacting all my policies while you overtake my the rest of my term.” 

“You little bitch,” Cage snarls. She’s cracked him. “You think you’re so much smarter than me, don’t you?”

He breaks then, his gun re-positioning in his grip to fire. Clarke elbows him sharply in the side, causing him to bend over and groan. She rips the gun from his grasp, her leg swinging up between his thighs to knee him in the groin. Cage kneels to the floor, clutching his crotch with a beat red face. Clarke takes advantage, smacking him down with the bud of the gun and aiming it at his limp, curled up body.

Clarke’s smirk overtakes her, her façade falling into shambles, as she towers over him in triumph. She cocks her gun to the side, leaning down slightly. “I don’t think I’m smarter than you. I just am.”

Beckoning the federal agents over, they collect their weapons before shuffling over to Clarke and Cage. They haul him off the ground, placing his hands behind his back and cuffing him. He barely makes eye contact with anyone as they usher him to the police car, but Clarke stares him down. She doesn’t tear her gaze away from him for one second, not until he disappears into the back of the police car and is shielded from her sight.

“Madam President,” Wells calls out to her with a big cheesy grin. Bellamy strides over with him, as Wells takes Clarke into a hug. “You had me a little worried there.”

Clarke grins, drawing back from his hug. “No way I wasn’t going to finish my second term.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Wells slaps his hand on Bellamy’s back, “This guy was getting in my ear, though. Talking about how he can’t lose you and all that.”

Clarke smiles bashfully as Bellamy nudges Wells ribcage. She tilts her head at the two, but locks eyes with Bellamy. “Told you I could handle myself.”

Bellamy rolls her eyes, but the charming smile of his makes his way onto his features. Wells glances between the two, suddenly out of place. He steps forward, squeezing Clarke’s shoulder supportively. She nods her head to him in acknowledgment before he slips away for the two of them, leaving Clarke and Bellamy to stand alone as most fade from the landing strip.

“Good catch with the connection between Tsing and Cage,” Clarke comments. “How did you know she was in on it?”

“He was banging her,” Bellamy scoffs. “It was obvious during the campaign trail. The accomplice is always the one that they’re banging.”

Clarke saunters towards him suggestively. “Is it always?”

The only people left on the landing strip are the two of them, and a few littering members of Clarke’s security detail. Bellamy smiles down at her, as Clarke’s hands snake up his forearms. There are prying eyes, but all of which Clarke can narrow down into a room and force them to sign NDA’s when this is all over. Right now, it’s just her and Bellamy.

“I missed you,” Clarke says earnestly. “I get that you had to keep Cage off your back, but I miss you around the White House.”

“Living in secrecy with Wells was an experience. I understand we were working together to figure this Cage shit out, but Ingrid is far too feisty for a seven year old. Not as much as Roan, though.” Bellamy grins. “I missed you, too. I’ll be back to work this week.”

“I know. But I was lonely without you following me around,” Clarke teases. “I don’t ever want to be a part from you again.”

“I don’t think it’s possible. We’re always going to be drawn to one another, whether there’s another assassination attempt on our lives or not.”

Clarke laughs, her giggles filling the air and melting into Bellamy. He beams at her, his warmth filling her chest, urging her to hold on tighter to him. She brings him closer, crashing her lips against his, welcoming his warmth and his touch and everything that is him. Her arms wrap around him as he tightens his grip on her.

“Eventually,” Clarke murmurs, drawing back slightly to rest her hand on his cheek, “It’ll just be you and me.”

“It already is,” Bellamy chides her with a charismatic smile. “But I do think I’m in need of a retirement.” 

“So am I.”

* * *

_Term 2, Year 4:_

Clarke’s fingers glide against the wood of the desk, delicate and smooth against her skin. The sun outside shines directly into the Oval Office, casting a shadow of light along her face. She basks in it, absorbing the rays of sunlight in this office while she still can. She inhales deeply, exhaling slowly as she glances around the office for the last time.

Silence looms over the room, leaving Clarke riddled in her thoughts. These past eight years have been nothing short of eventful, just as Clarke expected it to be. It almost feels like yesterday that she stood in this office for the first time, trying to absorb the fact that she was here. And now, her two, full terms are complete.

Spinning around slowly to bask in the Oval Office, Clarke’s not startled when she turns to see Bellamy standing on the opposite side of the room. She hadn’t heard him come in, but she assumed he was there. He’s always there.

“I was having a moment,” Clarke says.

“I can see that,” Bellamy smirks. “I tried to leave it to you. But we’ve got to get going.”

“Already?”

When Clarke first entered the presidency, she had no idea what would come after it. She would probably return to her Senate seat, but even that seemed like it had been done and over with. Her career was at its peak, as she expected it to be, as she wanted it to be, and her mind couldn’t compute what was going to happen afterwards. And then, there was Bellamy.

Bellamy nods, smiling sympathetically. “You’re going to miss this place, huh?”

“I am,” Clarke admits with a sigh. She takes a couple of steps towards him. “But I’m ready to move on. To start the next chapter of my life, leave my legacy here.”

“Your legacy will live on,” Bellamy points out. “You did good here.”

“I did. I belonged here,” Clarke exclaims. “And a part of me always will. I spent my whole life working up to these moments, and I made my mark.”

“You’re the best damn President this country has ever seen,” Bellamy steps forward, placing his arms delicately on her forearms and pecking her nose. “We were lucky to have you.”

Clarke steals a quick kiss from his lips. “You’re lucky to have me.”

“Damn straight.”

Clarke stifles a laugh, taking a step back from Bellamy. He watches her carefully for a moment, marveling in everything that is Clarke Griffin. He sighs deeply, as reminiscent of these past eight years together as she is. The realization dawns on them at the same time. They have all the time to reflect alone together, once this is all over in a couple of hours.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Bellamy bows his head to her. He strides over to the door, glancing behind him once more. “It’s been an honor, Madam President.”

She’s beaming as he slips out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Clarke stands alone in the Oval Office, taking in her scenery, in the place she called home for the past eight years of her life. Taking a deep breath in, Clarke closes her eyes and soaks it all in. She exhales, low and breathy, cemented in the middle of the Oval Office, in her rightful place. She’s only the President for a few more hours, but this – her presidency, her policies, the events, _Bellamy_ , everything – is something that’ll last her a lifetime.

With one final look at the Oval Office, Clarke strides out the door.

* * *

_A Year Later_

Sanctum is quiet, and peaceful, nothing like the bustle of Washington. It was an adjustment, Clarke’s life uprooting from this busy, never-stopping pace to this slow, calm and steady altitude. Here, she can listen to the birds hum in the trees and the rustle of leaves in her backyard. She still has her security detail lingering, but that’s not much use with her husband on constant guard.

She knows, even in instances where she buries she buries herself in her home office, that he’s standing outside the door. Force of habit, as he calls it, but in reality, he’s pacing back and forth – on a call with his sister, journaling, just trying to get his steps in. They’re drawn together, even when they live in the same, suburban home, and have ever since Clarke’s departure from the White House.

But she finds comfort in what hasn't changed. Sitting on the balcony of their new home, the cool wind of outdoor air whisking through the hair. Clarke's perched in a chair across from Bellamy, their feet gliding against one another as she paints a birds eye view of their home while her husband's eyes train on her intently. Every now and then, she'll look up, lock eyes with him and blow him a kiss, or she'll just be unable to resist and lean over to press her lips against his. 

The ring of Bellamy's phone disrupts the stroke of Clarke's brush. Her eyes dart up to his as he fishes out his phone, glancing down at the screen. He stands to his feet instantly, an panicked expression written across his features. Clarke sits up straight in alarm as Bellamy presses his finger to his lips before picking up the call, holding out the phone between the two of them. 

Over the speakerphone, a voice says, “Hi, yes, Mr. Blake and Mrs. Griffin. We’d love to have you come down to our offices to have you look over the paperwork, if you are still interested in adoption.”

Clarke’s eyes widen, setting her paint supplies to the side and rising to her feet to nab the phone from Bellamy’s grip. “Hi, this is Mrs. Griffin. My husband and I are on the line. We’d love to come down and chat as soon as possible.”

After ironing out the details, Clarke hangs up, only for Bellamy to swoop her into his arms. She giggles hysterically, overjoyed. Soon after their marriage, they began the proceedings on local adoption centers, referred to by Wells and Roan. They hadn’t thought they were going to hear back so soon.

“A kid, we’re having a kid,” Bellamy chants, settling Clarke down to the floor. Her arms are still wrapped around him, leaning against his chest. He pecks his forehead, his warmth radiating off of him and sinking into her. “I love you. I can’t believe we get to have this.”

“I love you, too,” Clarke gushes, lips melting into his. She draws back, resting her forehead against his. “We deserve it, you know. We worked hard to have this life together, you and I.”

Bellamy grins. “We did. But it was also just inevitable. I can’t stay away from you.”

“Because you’re obsessed with me.”

“There’s that.”

Clarke giggles, leaning up to steal one more kiss from him. Sometimes she can’t believe it either. After working so hard to be President, everything else should be a walk in the park. Settling down with Bellamy was the easiest decision she ever made, but sinking into the reality of it has been more difficult. It’s more of a dream come true than anything else.

“A child,” Clarke breathes out. “That’s going to be a challenge, huh?”

“We’ve made it through worse.”

“I don’t know. Dodging assassination attempts and changing diapers seem to be on a level playing field.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!:)


End file.
